To Keep Our Love Safe
by Rosepeony
Summary: Tag to the Season 7 Episode Black Market. A Jane and Lisbon learn to talk story. No conflict. No Case. Hurt and comfort, banter and hopefully a little humour Re-edited for errors. NEW CHAPTER ... Jane is back home ... lunch in the park ... reflections on colourful ducks and cbi families.
1. Chapter 1

**Firstly, I must apologize for posting this story while Kindred Spirit is still uncompleted. My motives are completely selfish. I do not want to post the final chapter of that story if I am not happy with it. I have had some wonderful reviews and it would be a shame to finish with an ending that is not worthy of those great reviews. Thus far, I am not satisfied.**

 **So I have written this story to cheer myself up. It is unashamedly Lisbon and Jane goodness with no crime and no real conflict between them and while that may not appeal to all of you it's what I have to write for myself for now.**

 **Then I will finish KS**

 **In the meantime, I hope some of you will enjoy this.**

 **To Keep our love safe.**

Lisbon wrapped up at the scene of the jewellery fiasco with a briskness over and above her usual professional efficiency. She set about battling with the inevitable afternoon rush hour traffic with her usual determination, intending to return to the office in time for her debrief with Abbott. Jane needed her, so, uncharacteristically, she resolved to make this a flying visit; it went against the grain, but the urge to get her partner back to the dubious comfort of his Airstream as soon as possible pulled her conscience in diametrically opposing directions. Love won out over duty.

She arrived feeling weary; as weary as Jane had sounded while he was whispering instructions to her through the tiny earpiece she wore earlier. The painfilled sound of his voice as it struggled past the frog in his throat was now playing on repeat in her head. It both exhausted her and spurred her on.

She made it back to the office in record time.

Dennis Abbott and her duty to the FBI was the last thing on her mind when she entered the bullpen, idly wondering why she, or anybody, still called it that, since it felt more like a call centre.

As she entered her eyes instinctively homed in on the incongruously cosy corner of the grey room that was exclusively Jane's; the only corner with books that could be read for pleasure and a lamp that glowed gold instead of white.

What she saw there made her resolve to take her sickly partner home without delay and to ask Abbott if she might come in early in the morning to write up the report that would normally have been done immediately.

Jane was sleeping.

She didn't go directly to him though, electing to do a little research first.

A brief chat with a couple of the few agents still on duty, revealed that Jane had been asleep all afternoon and hadn't stirred, only rising to stand like a statue, shivering solemnly while the same two mysterious burly men who'd moved his old brown couch earlier returned it to its usual place by the window.

The witnesses claimed they'd seen no trips to the break room to brew tea.

No peering over shoulders to relieve boredom.

They'd received no invitations to enter into wagers that no one but the crafty consultant could possibly win.

And, to their knowledge, there'd definitely been no pranks.

Nothing.

Except for the occasional sniff, sneeze or cough nobody had heard a peep from the man huddled under the homely beige blanket.

Eventually she wandered over to him.

When Jane instinctively felt Lisbon crouch down next to the couch he slowly opened one rheumy eye, slowly followed by the other, and one look at those eyes confirmed it; his inherently duplicitous nature had certainly not been encouraging him to feign sleep or sickness _this_ time.

Patrick Jane was not faking it.

Teresa's heart skipped a beat when she looked into those blearily soulful eyes, but in deference to the public setting, she steadfastly resisted the urge to give her lover's fevered brow a comforting stroke. Instead she elected to smile reassuringly at him and squeeze his hand, then raised her head to glance meaningfully in the direction of the boss's office.

Whether by chance or not, Abbott happened to be looking their way and understood immediately what she was trying to say, so she received a half hidden but knowing smile accompanied by a slight nod and a beckoning finger.

Within moments she was on her feet and half way to his door.

Abbott rose courteously and when he silently drew up a chair for her, she thought she saw a glimpse of Minelli in him - except her former boss would have grouched and understood whereas her current one said almost nothing, but still she knew he understood.

She liked them both.

"Sir …."

He cut her off. "I know Agent Lisbon. You need to take Jane home."

She let her tension go and tried not to let it show.

Abbott smiled and picked up his pen, "Just give me two minutes, then. Tell me the basics and leave the rest for the morning."

So the verbal debrief he demanded on the case was mercifully short, before he ushered her out again, saying simply, "Go. Do what you need to do."

When she and Jane arrived at what their boss referred to as her partner's 'home' (although she and, she thought, sometimes even Jane, didn't regard it as such), without uttering a sound Jane unwrapped himself from the cocoon of his woolly blanket, dragged off his jacket, slumped onto his unmade bed and pulled another blanket half over himself.

He'd been very quiet on the way there; only telling her he was fine, but tired and had a headache and had taken some of the cold remedies she'd bought when she took him his bean soup.

He told her he didn't think the little lemony sachets laced with drugs were any good. They tasted bitter and fresh honey and lemon was healthier, he said.

She made him a cup of tea, unbidden, which he took gratefully and sat up to drink half of, while she persuaded him to at least get rid of his shoes before he lay down again, still fully clothed apart from his jacket.

The tea succeeded in reviving his spirits a little, and once he was settled and comfortable Lisbon joined the consultant, lying beside him in the dwindling evening light to listen to his ramblings about one thing and another. He lay there smiling lazily and musing in lyrical whispers about an interesting day (which he'd only been awake for the most engaging part of anyway). He laughed, amused at how well she'd pulled off his plan and the fun he'd had directing operations from his sick couch.

She'd enjoyed it too, loved his trust in her, loved how well they worked together, how 'sympatico' they were.

After a shaky start she'd reveled in his confidence in her abilities, and was flattered by his faith in her, loved how gently he'd coached her is his 'methods', which he claimed were simple, but she'd always found a mystery. But she felt she'd done him proud. And she thought she could detect pride seeping through, undisguised, in his husky voice as he instructed her.

In fact, she'd enjoyed it so much that she thought more cases where he whispered in her ear were something to be encouraged. If the whispers contained a few sweet nothings, so much the better, but, and she smiled at the thought, even work whispers were enough to get her heart racing.

It had been a good day all round: case closed, well behaved consultant, happy agent.

Yes.

Maybe Jane could be sick more often - there was hardly a down side really - after all; he didn't even whinge when he was actually genuinely sick.

Also, he was quiet.

She knew exactly where he was.

He didn't cause trouble.

And he was happy - as long as he was with her.

There _really_ didn't seem to be a downside.

Except … she didn't like to see him suffer.

Sometime later, as she was creeping silently towards the door to leave Jane to get some restorative sleep, Lisbon paused to stifle a sneeze. A slightly croaky "sorry" wafted after her.

She quickly grabbed a tissue from the box she'd dropped off for him that morning (before he'd insisted on coming back to the office to crack the case that, obviously, nobody else could solve).

The tissue box was half empty and his little wicker wastepaper bin was already beginning to overflow.

As she pondered this, Jane's soft apology followed her, mixing with the sharp sound of her sneeze and echoing like a hypnotic chord in her brain. It made her smile. It made her marvel at the thought of a man - her man - who could imbue one single, almost inaudible, word with humour, irony and affection while full of cold and almost asleep and thus, barely aware of what he was saying. Or of the effect he had on her.

That man had magic in his voice.

And it made her love him more.

With once final backward glance, Lisbon closed the door of Jane's mobile home and as she muffled the sound of the latch with her hand, she made a mental note to drop by the drugstore for some cold remedies to replace the ones she'd been dosing him with, and now needed for herself.

She left his home with a definite hint of regret that spoiled a strangely pleasant day.

It had been a good day for so many reasons, despite Jane's illness, and as she got in her car and prepared to drive home to her empty house, Lisbon had time to think.

She felt a pang of guilt for the way she'd shut him out so harshly when they were lying there on his bed mere minutes ago; him half under the covers and her on top of them.

There hadn't been anything awkward about the way they were. They lay side by side but separate and lying straight, like soldiers, except that Jane, as was his habit, had his fingers interlaced loosely on his chest.

They'd been perfectly at ease; no need for physical contact. Just being together was often enough.

Jane been free-thinking about the future.

It was obvious he was mostly letting his thoughts run free because he was relaxed and drowsy and didn't feel like thinking them through before he actually said them. Even though it was hard to tell Jane's random thoughts from his artfully constructed and targeted ones, the way he'd been tonight had been different.

When she'd left his side so abruptly, it hadn't occurred to her that it wasn't often she was privy to these innermost dreams. That perhaps she should make the most of these precious moments.

She hadn't had time to dwell on it then, but now on the short drive home , she did.

Even now that they were 'together' she was never sure how much of himself Jane actually revealed. Certainly, it had always been, and often still was, hard for him to show the world his true self after so many years spent protecting his broken heart and concealing those parts of him that he was ashamed of. They both knew that even though they were almost at that point where he _could_ trust his heart and his feelings to her implicitly and completely, it was something they were still working on. And they both knew that particular truth cut both ways.

He'd always declared with the utmost bravado that he trusted her. And she'd always made a point of letting him know in no uncertain terms that _she_ didn't trust _him_.

Both had been telling the truth, up to a point. And the truth was _neither_ of them found trust easy.

But they were teaching each other and now they were almost there.

One thing she was sure of now though, was that he loved her.

And she loved him.

And they were learning to be more open.

So, yes, she felt guilty for overreacting to his suggestion that they blow the FBI and sail off into the sunset. She now realized that she'd practically leapt up off the bed as if he'd demanded she hand in her notice at once.

That wasn't what he had done at all.

No doubt the ideas he was rambling on about had been running rings around his mind for some time and no doubt they were serious thoughts, or they wouldn't have had the strength to rise to the surface now, when he was sick and definitely not his confident self.

Although it was reassuring that this meant Jane was being honest with her, what he said made her uncomfortable. And she did wonder how long he might have kept these thoughts to himself if circumstances had been different.

But, on reflection, Lisbon knew he hadn't meant to hurt or challenge her. It was just that she hadn't seen it coming. Now that she thought about it, it was clear that Jane's suggestions (if he even remembered having voiced them) ought to be the subject of rational discussion, not something slapped down so defensively. She resolved to put the subject aside till he was better and they could chat about it over an ice cream.

Nevertheless, the thought of a life outside of law enforcement was scary, and it re-surfaced as a nagging drumbeat in her head before she got through the third set of lights.

It lingered with her through the rest of the short drive home (via the drugstore), and made her night a restless one, until she finally found sleep.

Lisbon rose ridiculously early, the lack of any desire to stay wide awake in bed when there was absolutely no point and the promise made to Abbott last night all she needed to get going.

But instinct diverted her from making the FBI offices her first port of call.

It wasn't her famous cop instinct.

She didn't know whether it was a good thing or unprofessional, but she didn't feel guilty that the thoughts that disturbed her lonely night had to be exorcised by an early visit to see Jane before she could concentrate on work. After all, she had promised she'd call to check on him in the morning. She just hadn't specified how early she might be.

At well before seven a.m. a weak sun glanced in fine silvery spears off the dewy surface of the Airstream's curved roof and bounced in bright sparkles off the wet grass. She'd never seen it looking like this, glistening smooth and sleek among the green; Jane's own private, shining silver palace, a memory of the better times in his childhood, maybe.

It was still chilly and the unwelcoming coldness of the metal door handle, as she tried to get the key into the lock, made her regret leaving him alone last night and glad that she had returned so early; she imagined that no matter how romantic it appeared in the morning sunshine, the silver bucket would be freezing inside.

A little below par herself and grumpy from the combination of a bad night's rest and getting up earlier than usual, she found herself smiling anyway; Jane's key was in her hand and it was in her possession because she had stolen it from his pocket.

Okay, so he hadn't been wearing his jacket at the time. Still it was a good feeling, to turn the tables occasionally, and it was for his own good; she could sneak in quietly without disturbing the sleep her consultant so badly needed.

But the sight that met her eyes as they adjusted to the dim light inside made Lisbon glad she had trusted herself and not her cop self.

Wedged into the corner where the back of the bench seat at the foot of his bed met the window, sat the hunched figure of her pitifully woebegone friend.

The blanket he had dragged with him all around the office yesterday, was once again pulled up over his head and clutched tightly around his body. She couldn't tell at first if he was awake or sleeping, until he heard her and slowly lifted his head and peered at her with dull greenish eyes that couldn't seem to focus.

He looked completely miserable.

Then he blinked slowly and spoke.

"Hey."

The sound seemed an octave lower than usual, gravelly and weak, his delivery sluggish. "What time is it?"

"Too early." She sniffed and threw down the pack of medications on the table, beside two cups that sat discarded with their dregs of long forgotten tea. "You get any sleep?"

"Tried." He cleared his throat them mumbled tiredly through the stubborn croak. "Had to get up. Couldn't settle."

"I was worried about you."

Lisbon frowned at him for a long time before depositing her bag next to the pills.

"I'm fine," he insisted and shifted forward slightly, leaning towards her. And suddenly an arm was unfurling lethargically from under the shelter of his woolly comforter, long fingers searching for contact.

His hand was hot and dry as it enveloped hers and pulled her to him, and slightly shaky.

As skin met skin, Jane's face softened with a wan smile. "I missed you."

And when he looked up at her in the thin morning light, she could see a hot pink flush flooding over skin that looked pale, translucent and dry - as if fever had drained it of life.

"Come here," he invited, opening the folds of his blanket, struggling a bit to find a way out.

She felt his heat escape into the cool Airstream.

"Need a cuddle," he told her.

Initially Lisbon resisted, not really knowing why, but finally she allowed herself to be dragged into a disorganized and slightly feeble embrace.

Jane planted his burning, crusty lips gently on her cheek with such delicate longing that she felt a sudden urge to cry.

But she sneezed and the contact was abruptly broken.

Jane flinched and blinked, then grimaced.

So she sat back in order to see his face properly. "I can't stay Jane."

His expression fell to thoughtfulness, until ...

"Yes you can," he exclaimed brightly and with a hint of triumph, told her, "You've got what I've got. No reason to stay away - we can be sick together. I'm sure Abbott would be perfectly amenable to you keeping our germs out of his clean zone …" His voice ground to a painful halt and he stopped to clear his throat. "… and besides you playing nurse means he gets his most valuable asset back in tip top working order sooner rather than later."

Lisbon almost scowled at the nurse suggestion, which she knew he'd thrown in to tease her, but she thought better of it.

"I feel absolutely fine Jane. I just have a little sniffle. No fever. Whereas you …" She stroked the tip of her finger playfully down his nose and gave him an exaggerated glare. "… are ill."

Jane opened his mouth again to object, but the deep breath he needed to fuel his indignation was arrested by a ferocious cough that rattled deep in his chest and drew his face into an unattractive expression of pain and forced his body to crumple in on itself.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, waiting for the accompanying cold sweat to disappear.

"See! ," she retorted rather too loudly.

Lisbon tried, really she did, but she failed not to sound either amused or unsympathetic, although soon she found her hand rising in concern to feel his forehead and brush through the messy locks above it. His brow was burning but suddenly sticky where it hadn't been before and she could feel the pulse racing in his temple.

"Patrick," she told her consultant in her most solicitous and persuasive tone; not difficult since she was in fact growing more and more concerned. "It's cold in this tin can of yours, and you're sitting here swaddled like a baby in your blanket, shivering and miserable, yet you're not even aware that you're burning up with fever. Your temperature's way too high, you obviously haven't slept and I could hear that cough making horrible noises in your chest from outside the door of this stupid so called home of yours. And you gave the game away when you let the pain show on your face … you let your mask slip Patrick Jane and … and where did that cough come from … you …"

"But I've stopped sneezing …" he protested hopefully when she paused her anxious tirade to come up for air.

"Doesn't mean a thing," she blasted back.

"Would I lie to you Teresa?" came the counter argument, delivered in a pathetic whine, that on any other day would have been a blatant wind up, but today she knew was genuine. "I came clean about it yesterday, didn't I? Stayed in the office on my sick bed like a good boy, while you took the limelight - and I must say that sounded like some performance." He grinned briefly and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "Very proud of you," he mumbled.

"Yeah, you did. You did admit you were sick yesterday." She knew she had him now, so ignored his last appeasing remarks and thundered on. "So why are you saying you're fine today, when any damned fool can see you're not."

She brushed the warm hand that lingered on her arm away and glared at him properly now. "I'm not a complete idiot you know. What's the game Jane?"

He didn't answer.

It was then, as she watched him gradually wilting under the steely gaze she tried to maintain, that she realized the truth of the man and his still messed up sense of self.

That foolish, sweet, screwed up man-child.

He hadn't felt well yesterday but instead of blustering his way through the day on a diet of aspirin and in otherwise complete denial as he would usually have done, he had given in to the inevitable when Abbott had called his bluff. He'd gone home as he was told, but had used the situation for her advancement and his own amusement.

Over the years, he had been cautiously letting her into the inner sanctum of his world of mental trickery and subterfuge; a realm which, to outsiders, most of the time looked like nothing more than flashy showbiz and cheap magic.

It had started with small things, then graduated to stage work, like displaying stuffed dead wildlife to show off his magnificent memory and trap a killer.

The next step had been as assistant to his mind reading act at that god-awful men only club in the middle of nowhere. She'd had to deliver the correct key words carefully disguised so he could give the right answers.

That was also the time when he'd done the selfless, gentlemanly thing and arranged a 'copter so she wouldn't have to forego her date with Pike. She didn't know whether to kiss him or slap him for that when she thought about it now. Sweet, stupid man.

But that job had been fun for both of them … she'd seen it in the gleeful way he'd bounced around the stage. And she'd felt a fleeting, joyful closeness that, at the time, she'd thought they'd lost.

A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then and there hadn't been a case that had called for them to perform together like that, but yesterday his sickness had presented the perfect opportunity to push her to the next level; to include her completely in his fun way of detection.

She wasn't sure now, as she sat watching him - all shivery, pale and feverish, whether he had actually been well enough to put on the show himself anyway.

Possibly not, but who could ever know with the enigmatic Patrick Jane.

One thing was certain though, yesterday's hour of coaching in the Airstream and his supportive prompting in her ear that had led to the dramatic unveiling of the killer, had been like a present for her.

Another sign of his trust.

It had been another building block in the budding relationship that seemed to have been in suspended animation for so many years and was only now beginning to blossom.

That had been yesterday, but today Jane had reverted to the security (or insecurity) of his old persona; that closed off man who deflected, protected himself from pain and anything or anyone who could subject him to it or remind him of it, and most importantly (today, anyway) that included any hint of doctors. And, although she hadn't even mentioned that dreaded profession, he was already feeling threatened.

So Jane, or so he said, was not now, and not ever, ill - except that looking at him today it seemed that he was indeed ill and, unfortunately, a doctor was the very thing he needed.

Eventually, when he saw that her exasperated expression had melded into something altogether more compassionate, Jane sighed in defeat and answered her question. The question she'd almost forgotten asking. What was his game?

"Okay," he grumbled. "I give up. I was only a little bit sick yesterday - well, maybe just a little bit more than a little …"

She frowned and huffed.

He coughed and grimaced.

"… and perhaps I might have milked it. But, in my defence, we had a perp to nab, and we had fun, didn't we? You know we did."

He used his pointer finger in that inimitable way of his and shrugged weakly under cover of his blanket.

"Besides they wouldn't have caught her without us," he added seriously.

She was going to object, but he swiftly turned that pointing finger into a deflecting palm and continued.

"And, okay - as you've pointed out, I don't feel too good this morning. But I'm sure I'll be better tomorrow. Just had a bad night. Need to hit the sack. Catch me some zeeees."

With that, intending to transfer back to bed, he manfully wrestled the blanket from around his body, and scrambled from the seat, causing Teresa to jump up out of his way.

He stood there before her in the creased, slightly damp clothes that he'd been in for a full twenty four hours, swaying and wobbling like a newborn foal while he found his equilibrium and something to hang onto.

"Thanks," he said gratefully when she quickly grabbed hold of his arm to stop him from tumbling into an embarrassed heap on the floor.

"Got up too quickly …" he bluffed, but she thought he looked like he might be about to vomit. She dipped to examine his eyes and took hold of his shoulders firmly while he blinked, took a few rapid, shallow breaths and steadied himself.

"Okay now?" she asked when it seemed the crisis was over.

He nodded bashfully and attempted a small smile.

"Right. This is what's going to happen," Lisbon told him sternly while he stood there in something of a daze. "You're going to get out of those stinky clothes and take a cool shower, while I mix up one of these cold thingies - if nothing else that should get your temperature down a bit. I'll sort out the bed so you can snuggle down and get some sleep while I go do my job, which I should have been doing half an hour ago. Hopefully when I get back, you'll be better and I won't be forced to call a doctor."

"Yes Mom," Jane muttered meekly because he knew when he was beaten and didn't have the energy to resist.

Then he squirmed out of her grip, dropped down onto the side of the bed and started fumbling with his shirt buttons, studiously ignoring the last part of his dear Teresa's instructions (specifically the 'doctor' part) because to be honest he just wasn't up for a fight - not even a small banter session.

"Need some help getting undressed?"

He looked straight up into her kind green eyes and quipped with remarkable deadpan, "Not tonight Josephine - but would you tug my socks off?"

"Bending down could be dangerous," he explained. "Feeling a bit dizzy."

Unfazed, she knelt and pulled off each soggy Washington sock, threw them toward the corner where she knew he stashed his laundry, and started on the buttons that he'd already given up trying to unfasten.

"Where d'ya keep clean pyjamas?"

"Down there, bottom drawer," he indicated with a small nod that made his head swim and had him closing his eyes briefly, then he wriggled out of his shirt as soon as she had finished unbuttoning it and pushed himself up off the bed.

She was still kneeling, so he held onto her shoulder as he stepped carefully out of the trousers that had slid down his legs to a sad pool of cloth at his feet.

"Thank you, Teresa," he said quietly and she felt a little waft of something indefinable sweep over her.

She couldn't figure if it was shame or simply shyness – the moment was so strangely intimate.

She hesitated for a moment.

"Are you going to be alright in the shower?"

But he had already turned away.

"Yeah. I'll be fine," came the morose reply as Teresa Lisbon watched Patrick Jane and his very attractive boxer clad bottom shuffle and wobble cautiously into the bathroom. "I'll yell if I'm not."

 **Thanks for reading**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have to say I was blown away by the response to the first chapter. I have to admit I was surprised, as personally I think my other current story Kindred Spirit is more interesting ... but who am I to judge. Special thanks to all the guest reviewers and those I didn't get around to answering.**

 **On with the show then ... enjoy**

It was half an hour later, and the Airstream was peaceful, save for the occasional wheezing, snoring and coughing of Teresa Lisbon's ailing boyfriend.

Jane had complained vehemently that it was lying down that made him cough so painfully; it was that which kept him awake, so now he slept propped up against several extra pillows, which Lisbon had dragged from various hidey holes around the vehicle. The shower and the medicine had soothed him considerably and her lips had barely touched Jane's forehead in a reluctant farewell before he was asleep, safe in the knowledge that he had till the evening, when his lady returned, to shake off whatever bug had laid him so low.

Lisbon, however, had other ideas. Having virtually raised her boisterous brothers she could distinguish a malingering lay about, which Jane often pretended to be, from a genuine ill person, which he certainly was, so she slunk guiltily away into the now warm morning sunshine, fully intending to return at lunchtime in the company of a member of the dreaded medical profession.

She rushed into the office only twenty three minutes late and was ridiculously pleased, but also mildly irritated when she crept past Abbott's office only to discover that he wasn't in yet.

Ten minutes later, already on the outside of a huge cup of strong coffee and having scolded herself for being paranoid about being late, she was beavering away at her computer and sipping one of the blackcurrant flavoured cold remedies she'd smuggled out of the pack she'd got for Jane.

The report that should have been on Abbot's desk the previous evening was almost complete when she saw him striding though the bullpen.

"A word Agent Lisbon. My office," he called as he approached.

He smiled though, as he passed, so she was curious more than worried as she pressed the key to print off the report and rose to her feet to retrieve it from the printer on the other side of the office.

"Ah, Teresa," Abbott greeted when she walked into his lair and deposited the report in front of him with a somewhat forced smile. "Come in. Sit down."

He smiled and gestured for her to take a seat, pushing the papers to one side and resting his arms on the desk. "I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done."

She slid into the chair and relaxed with a sigh of relief.

"Thank you Sir. Sorry the report's late."

"It's okay. I understand." Abbott gave her another smile, dark eyes twinkling over the heavy framed glasses that hovered just below the bridge of his nose, "Jane, eh?" he asked, already sure of the answer.

Lisbon shifted, uncomfortable for a moment, still not certain just how much her boss knew about their relationship or, for that matter, what he thought about it.

"Yeah," she confirmed quietly and with no inflection.

Abbott averted his eyes to some papers that he retrieved from a beige folder with a label she couldn't read.

"Actually, he's sort of what a wanted to talk about."

At that Lisbon visibly bristled; her natural response to that kind of statement, because - well - it was going to be something bad - usually was.

Over the years, no matter how much trouble he caused her, or anyone else for that matter, it had become second nature, a knee jerk reaction, to jump to Jane's defence or at least to be sure she would be the first to punch him or punish him if it was called for.

He was after all (or at least had been, for nearly half the years she'd been a cop), _her_ consultant. No simple change of agencies was ever going to change that. That was the excuse she had always used to keep him out of trouble - and now, she thought happily, as far as she was concerned she didn't even need an excuse.

Unbelievably, he was hers to defend and hers to chastise when necessary. That was the way she felt, and nobody was going to disabuse her of that notion.

Trouble was, she wasn't yet sure how their boss felt about him being hers.

"Don't worry," Abbott assured her, observing her posture's perceptible change. "I just thought it would be easier to get your views on something without him interrupting and disrupting."

Lisbon tried to disguise the way she released a long breath to dispel the tension she'd been harbouring.

Abbott's eyebrows lifted. "He's not coming in, is he?"

The fact that her superior officer assumed she had tabs on Jane outside office hours and seemed comfortable with it was good, although if she thought about it, that had always been the case, if not openly acknowledged. Everyone simply assumed she was the one who knew what the team's consultant was up to. Even when she didn't have a clue.

She supposed that it was the change in the tone of their 'outside office hours' life when viewed from her own perspective, more than any outsider's, that made her nervous. She didn't know if the outside world had even noticed. But then she also wondered if she was being naïve to think that no one saw the way Jane gazed at her and stood that little bit closer. Or how much more relaxed he was. Or how much happier they _both_ were.

Abbott hadn't said anything about their potential extra-curricular activities since they returned from Miami and as she had asked Jane to keep things on the down low, she had hoped their new-found closeness wasn't common knowledge. If Jane knew better, he'd said nothing to disillusion her. She was pleased he seemed to have read her slight reticence about going public before the Pike dust had settled. And even more pleased that he hadn't baulked when she'd suggested they keep things quiet. Still, she always wondered if all those knowing looks and understanding but ambiguous comments coming from Dennis Abbott were just her slightly guilty imagination or him letting her know that their secret was out.

Before she decided how to phrase her answer, she studied the face of the bear of a man opposite her. He was almost as enigmatic as her boyfriend. Big, powerful and serious; not a man to be crossed, but loyal, kind and avuncular - she'd want him on her side.

And surprisingly easy to read - given that she'd learned from the master.

Apparently, he did know - and that was a relief, because she was by no means as skilled as Jane at keeping secrets from the boss, nor nearly as comfortable.

"It's why I'm late Sir. I went to check on him," she told her boss at last. "He's … uh … well, he didn't get much sleep."

Abbott seemed pleased.

"Good. We don't want him spreading his germs everywhere, do we?"

He reached instinctively into the top drawer for his hand sanitizer and his pleased face switched to neutral.

Lisbon thanked the Lord that she'd managed not to sniff or sneeze yet and wasn't showing any signs of Jane's fever.

"I was going to ask how you and Patrick are finding working together now that your relationship has – uh - changed," Abbott told her dryly.

 _Oh … so there is a problem …_

"Oh, - we're - er - fine," she replied, somewhat flustered, and the heat rose in her cheeks. "Why,? Is there something wrong?"

"Not sure - but it's my job to find out," The big man smiled a smile that did nothing to reassure her and glanced down at a couple of single sheets from the folder. "It's just that the last few cases have thrown up some issues that made me wonder if he's coping with the transition - "

Lisbon's tongue went dry and her mouth dropped open for a moment before she recovered and donned one of the masks she'd seen Jane use - bland indifference, with a hint of confidence. She hoped any residual blush of embarrassment didn't spoil the effect.

"Oh -," she heard her twelve year old's voice say. This was Jane - her Jane - they were talking about, so it shouldn't have been a surprise.

But of course, it was.

"Yes," Abbott continued solemnly. "I have a complaint here."

He wafted the incriminating evidence in the air between them, "… from Agent Spackman, citing unprofessional and insulting behaviour and undermining the authority of a fellow FBI employee in front of suspects and members of the public."

He passed a completed form across the desk for her to examine.

She ignored it.

" It seems Patrick took exception to something Spackman said to you."

Teresa quickly leapt to Jane's defence, but the Agent Lisbon in her maintained her coolly feisty exterior.

"Sir, Spackman was being a sexist jerk. Jane would have defended the honour of any woman. He has impeccable manners."

She didn't bother to reveal that at the time she had been conflicted; ordinarily she would have been furious with Jane for going all caveman when he knew full well that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself, especially at work, but Jane's little show had been so unexpected and - well - sweet - for want of a better word; overused, no doubt, but she found it coming to mind more and more these days.

"Yes, I'm sure he would - unless it suited his purpose not to," Abbott observed. "So you didn't think he was being over protective then?"

"No, of course not," she insisted automatically. "That was just Jane being Jane - probably a distraction."

He seemed satisfied, but after a lengthy and worrying pause, during which she had time to wonder if he had a point, Abbott suddenly said. "Actually I'm more concerned about the way your undercover job went down. He could have gotten you both killed, leaving his backup stranded with no transport and no explanation. Agent Vega is inexperienced in the field. Jane should have known better."

Lisbon almost jumped from her seat in indignation, but Agent Lisbon held her back.

"He saved my life Dennis," she growled at him. "What would you have had him do? The guy was going to shoot me. If he'd spent time arguing with Agent Vega I'd be dead. He wouldn't have got to me in time."

Abbott was unmoved and unmoving, his eyes pinning her with cool but friendly authority, "We don't know that Teresa," he said sadly. "We'll never know. But the fact remains, he blundered off into a confrontation with armed criminals, with no backup and no means of defence, other than that big mouth of his." He took off his glasses, ran a hand over tired eyes and told her. "Frankly I was hoping you two being together would smooth out some of his impulsiveness, quieten him down a bit, calm his nerves."

He paused to study the face and posture of the woman opposite. She had sunk back into her seat and was now looking more despondent than angry and he thought, a trifle pale.

Lisbon considered his words.

It was true Jane was much happier now, but it couldn't be denied, he still had his edgy moments, some might call them crazy, some downright dangerous. She had to accept that. Only thing was she hadn't seen it as having anything to do with their new found love. She hadn't really expected his behaviour to change; his mood yes, but his character was another matter. It certainly hadn't crossed her mind that he might become _more_ reckless.

Abbott continued, changing tack. "You seem to be working well together," he observed, with the hint of a question.

"We are sir. We had a chance to talk some things through in Beirut and we're doing good. But Jane's a complicated man, he's not gonna change overnight just because we got together."

A strange little shiver chased down her spine and she felt herself blush - revealing personal stuff to anyone, much less her boss, was anathema to her. And Beirut had been another small personal watershed for them.

Abbott leant forward again and rested his arms back on the desk.

"I know that, and believe me Teresa, I understand," he said. "But I have to be confident that my people can work together safely and efficiently. I'm going to end up with half a team if you or Jane end up dead or he cracks up again, which I have to say is a concern."

He took off his glasses again and started cleaning them while he continued to stare at her intently, but his eyes told her his only intention was to help.

"You _do_ know when you were in jail he spent the whole night sitting here on his couch? Didn't leave the building, so I'm told."

Teresa wasn't that surprised. When she thought about his overly jocular behaviour when they dropped her off that morning, she should have guessed he might struggle, but she'd been a little hyped up herself, and she hadn't dared turn back to look at his face as she was driven through the gates.

Then there was his visit to the jail. He'd been calmness personified, if a little too business like - but he'd chosen that day to wear a vest. Oh, he'd brushed it off nicely, when she'd asked him. He thought 'he ought to look the part', but he was wearing his trusty three piece armour again.

She shook her head sadly, but didn't make any comment.

She knew Patrick had missed her, as she'd missed him, but to think that he'd sat alone with no one he felt he could talk to - it was a reminder of the dark CBI days. Or the nights during her time with Pike, that she'd closed her eyes to so conveniently. Night after night, when she'd left the bullpen to the sight of him sitting alone on that damned couch with a face like he felt the whole world had moved on and left him behind.

At least in the jail cell that lonely night she'd had her cell mate Marie to confide in, even if opening up to her had been part of Jane's master plan - it had still been a comfort.

But who did Jane have without _her_?

Now she felt perhaps, as his bond with her was becoming stronger, he was merely swapping one set of anxieties for another - the latest in a list as long as his difficult life; and that she was the cause of this new worry.

Abbott sat back in his chair again and linked his hands behind his head. He sighed loudly.

"He's been back for nearly a year, I had hoped he would have settled now that you two have - found each other."

Lisbon crossed her legs defensively and cleared her throat of a little of the croakiness she'd been suppressing. "It's never easy to deal with Jane, Sir," she tried to explain. "There's a lot of painful stuff inside him that he still can't deal with - it's a process. But I'll talk to him."

"I don't want you to tell him I've said anything, Teresa," her boss warned her as he started gathering paperwork into his briefcase. "I think he knows I understand that he worries about you. I also know he might deny it. All I ask is that you bear my observations in mind and maybe sound him out on how he feels things are going - work wise, of course."

It appeared the conversation was over and she sat, weary and a little lost for words, and with far too much to think about, as Abbott started to rise, saying cheerfully, "Thank you Agent Lisbon, and don't worry too much, I'm sure everything will be fine. Now -" more briskly, "I have yet another meeting to get to before I can join you lucky people with the crime solving."

He was half way out of his seat when Lisbon suddenly remembered something.

"Er - I was wondering - before you go - do we have an agency doctor who does house calls?" she asked.

Not missing a beat, Abbott sat down again, smoothly opened a drawer, and took out a small notebook.

Muttering to himself, "Quicker than modern tech -" he flicked to the letter N, wrote a number on a yellow sticky note, and leant across the desk to hand it to her in one swift motion.

"He's not so good then?" He looked up at her. "Take the rest of the day and get him sorted out."

Then he replaced the book in the drawer, gave his hands a cursory clean and left her sitting there.

Dr. Nicholson was more than amenable when she called and, having heard Lisbon's detailed appraisal of Jane's condition, and noted the concern in her voice, he agreed to follow her out to the leafy spot where her colleague parked his home.

As the doctor retrieved his bag from the back seat of his blue sedan, Lisbon jogged to join him so that she could finish the preparatory briefing for his potential ordeal at the hands of Patrick Jane. She had no idea of the reception they would get.

Would the patient be miraculously recovered, but snarky because she'd gone behind his back? Or, on the other hand, would he be recovered, cheerful and welcoming, and would he tease her for being overly worried?

She hoped fervently that either would be true, and preferably the latter, but feared deep down that it would be neither.

It had only been a couple of hours since she had torn herself away from his side, but the imprint of Jane's hot lips still tingled on her cheek, the image of his parchment skin with it's burning pink highlights still floated before her eyes.

She knew he would be no better and feared he would be worse.

"I should warn you," she advised the tall young doctor as he slammed his car door and locked up. "He may not be co-operative. He probably won't tell the truth and he'll almost certainly be rude."

"Doesn't like doctors then?" the friendly man who strode at her side chuckled, already seeming to understand. "Or in denial?" he asked.

"More of a general trust issue," she grumbled, fumbling in her pocket to find Jane's keys.

Trying vainly to find words with which to explain the inexplicable character of the enigma she was still unravelling herself was hard. Deciphering the puzzle for a stranger occupied her full attention, as Jane often did, but still, as the pair approached the Airstream the keys were located and so were the words.

"- and fear - or, most likely - ego - no - not exactly ego - but he needs to be in control." - _or he might fall over the edge._

Lisbon knew that when the sun rose high in the sky and beat down on the metal panels of the Silver Bucket it become disproportionately hot inside; she had visions of the occupant stewing like a dog left in a locked car on a summers day, so she had left two small windows open a few inches, for ventilation.

Coming level with the first opening they could hear the soft sound of uncontrollable coughing that Jane was obviously trying to suppress and Dr. Nicholson caught the anxious quickening of her gait.

"Doesn't sound too good, does it? Don't worry," he consoled in a bright whisper. "He won't put one over on me. Seen it all before,"

He winked a warm, dark brown eye at her and continued.

"You'd be surprised how many full grown men are cowards or self-delusional heroes when it comes to their health. But believe me thermometers and stethoscopes don't lie. I'll show him the evidence and let him listen himself if necessary."

Lisbon looked the man up and down before slipping the key into it's hole, and was impressed with what she saw and heard; quiet confidence and a pleasant no nonsense air. She felt the 'wise beyond his years' young medic had been a good call. Just the thing to deal with her unpredictable boyfriend.

On opening the door, an unpleasant rush of warm air that smelled of human sweat and stale tea met them and before she entered Lisbon waved her hands in the doorway to disperse some of the mugginess. She called out a cheery greeting to announce their presence to Jane.

"Hey Jane. It's only me."

The blinds were still closed from the night before, the space colourless in the gloom, only lit by fine threads of quivering burnished silver where the sun found narrow gaps to sneak obliquely in. It looked like fine lines ruled by an unsteady hand, drawn on bits of black paper with smudgy metallic ink.

The incongruous juxtaposition of the cold grey light, still warm air and familiar but tainted smells gave Lisbon an unaccustomed feeling of discomfort as she stepped inside for the second time that day.

Jane's newest home never felt like this. It was usually flooded with bright sunshine and alive with his buzzing energy and natural bonhomie. It was never anything but homely and very, very Jane.

Now, in the half light, as her eyes adjusted, Lisbon's attention fell to a tiny shimmering circle of reflection from some random shiney surface; a little bright light that danced in a luminous patch of warmth on the side of Jane's face and up onto the strands of his flattened hair, making it shine gold again.

The man she loved lay sprawled diagonally across the bed in a tangled heap, body burrowed deep into the pillows she had left him propped against, with legs and arms poking out from a mess of rumpled covers.

When he heard her voice his head emerged more fully and turned in slow motion, and a sleepy face looked around in confusion at what was going on.

"Lisbon?" a small voice rasped.

He smiled vaguely when he found focus on her face, then let his pleasure drift to disappointment when he saw she was not alone, "- you brought reinforcements," he said and allowed his eyes to close.

The doctor tactfully stood back in the shadows, so Lisbon conveniently neglected to make introductions. Gauging the lie of the land seemed to be the more sensible option, till she figured if their visitor needed to be Dr. Nicholson or Steve, a new colleague from narcotics, interested in buying an RV.

"I did," she confirmed quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking hold of his hand. There was little resistance as she lifted it and played with his fingers. He simply smiled up at her dreamily from under those droopy lids that wouldn't stay open. "How you feeling? Better?"

He nodded, then forgetting his uninvited guest for a moment, and pleased and relieved to see her, Jane straightened himself up a bit and blinked hard in an effort to see her better, he cleared his throat and tried for light and breezy.

"Oh - you know. Getting there. Bit tired."

But her hand on his forehead and the unnatural sound of his voice struggling out on wheezy breaths proved him a liar. She knew which Steve Nicholson had crossed Jane's threshold.

"That's good," she said supportively and picked up the unopened bottle of water she'd left tucked between the mattress and the wall so he could reach it. It was warm, so she put it to one side.

"Who's your mysterious friend?" he asked, suddenly peering over her shoulder.

She steeled herself, but still felt stupid for being nervous about getting him medical help; doing something she knew he would berate her for. In the old days it wouldn't have bothered her; he could go suck eggs if he didn't like what she did.

But now things were different, she was more sensitive to his sensitivities, his fears, she chose their battles more carefully. As did he, she thought.

Because now, although their bond was more secure, they both had more to lose.

Still, today he could go suck eggs - she was right and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Oh yeah, sorry," she said, turning her head and beckoning the doctor to step forward. "This is Steve Nicholson, I happened to bump into him getting into the elevator," she kept the pitch of her voice deliberately low, hoping Jane wouldn't call her on the lie. "He was called in to check on a suspect on the third floor," the lie continued. "I was telling him how you'd given me your cold -"

Nicholson interrupted brightly, picking up on Lisbon's subterfuge quickly, to complete her sentence with subtly disguised enthusiasm, "- sneezed all over me," he laughed and winked at her. "- anyway, we got talking, and as I happened to be coming out this way, and I'm told you keep a fine selection of teas -"

He was stopped in his tracks, however, by the sound of Jane sighing loudly and the chaotic sight of flailing limbs as the sick man rolled dramatically over to face the wall.

"Really Lisbon - I thought better - of you - " he spluttered and moaned.

Apparently he could smell out a whiff of antiseptic at any distance even with the handicap of olfactory impairment.

Lisbon didn't say a word.

Instead, unperturbed and undaunted by Jane's little show of disapproval, she calmly motioned to the doctor to take a seat while she remained quietly perched on the side of the bed, listening to Jane as his irregular breaths slowly evened after the excursion.

Jane had his eyes closed, so she looked over at the other man and mouthed, "We wait it out,"

She laid a hand gently on Jane's back and watched as it rose and fell in stops and starts. She could feel the moment at the end of each short painful breath, when he flinched and let it go again, unable to inhale any deeper.

What she really wanted to do was to wrap her arms around him and never let him go, and there was something about the way his arms kept moving back toward her then away again as he lay fidgeting and gasping that made her think it was what he really wanted too. But even now he had to stand his ground.

She watched and listened and soothed and whispered, becoming almost unaware of their guest, until slowly the breaths became longer and he began to relax.

At last there came a quiet husky voice, "Lisbon … do you think you could make a pot of tea?"

And fifteen minutes later Jane was sitting against newly piled pillows, bleary eyed, but feeling much better, and drinking a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

Lisbon sat, in a state of extreme relief, studying his exhausted face as he savoured his tea and fervently wishing she would one day learn not to try to pull the wool over the mentalist's eyes - or failing that, to improve her technique.

Jane had agreed, without too much bullying from her, to allow himself to be examined. She had appealed first to his caring side and then to his need for her; told him she hadn't slept for worrying over him, that it was making her ill too, and if she was ill she wouldn't be able to care for him. He had seen the logic. And he really needed her. But mostly, he just couldn't be bothered to resist.

Also she had refused to make tea unless he donated two minutes of his precious time to medical research. How could he refuse, with tea on offer and the determined glare she was giving him, and the promise that he could go back to sleep thereafter.

The patient co-operated silently, and the examination was mercifully lacking in those tiresome 'ahas' and 'goods' and other such useless comments that irked him so. In fact it was, rather disconcertingly, all over in a few minutes; disconcerting because, in Jane's experience things that happened too quickly were almost never good news. He was getting a bad vibe - and it was the doctor's stony silence that was doing it. That was what kept him quiet.

Anyway: temperature, blood pressure, a cursory listen to the old ticker, all done in no time - but an unreasonably painful and horribly long time spent, bent almost double (or it felt that way) with a stethoscope pressed to his back over and over again. He could hardly breathe and it made him feel sick. Besides, it seemed perverse to squash the lungs of a man who couldn't breathe.

After he had finished his examination Dr. Nicholson didn't say anything to Jane. He quietly packed his equipment into his sturdy black bag and went to sit at the other end of the Airstream with cup in hand while Lisbon helped Jane get comfortable and handed him his reward; his favourite tea. His hands were shaky, and he was desperately pale, but soon he was sipping gratefully. He didn't have anything to say – nor energy to say it.

When the doctor's cup was empty he put it on the drainer then immediately fished the cell phone from his back pants pocket and keyed in a number he knew by heart.

"Um Agent Lisbon," he asked in lowered tones, indicating with a twitch of his head that she should join him, "Do you know the proper address of this place?"

"Er, no. That is, I'm not sure," she whispered with a quick glance back at Jane who was still blissfully enjoying little sips. And listening.

It dawned on her that only a few people knew how to get to the place, which didn't even have a sign at the gates and was at the end of a shortish, poorly maintained private road and surrounded by tall trees and flowering shrubs. She fancied it had once been the grounds of an old mansion, long since demolished. She had no idea how Jane had found such a secret Shangri-la in the midst of Austin. But it was so very, very typical of him - to find a place so different.

"Why?" she whispered, signaling as subtly as she could to the doctor that it would be wise to keep his voice down.

"I'm going to call an ambulance. Your friend needs to go the hospital."

Lisbon threw another, more anxious glance in the direction of the subject of conversation, wondering at once how to handle the situation, and was met with the sight of a brown mug dangling from long fingers at the end of a navy pyjama clad arm.

He glowered at her.

"My ears are burning."

In spite of the rose blush of guilt that began to heat her cheeks, she decided to play it cool, like it was no big deal, and went to sit beside him again. And again she was hit by the way the heat radiated from him, and how he shivered, while the sweat glistened on his brow.

She bent and pecked him lightly on the lips.

"You have to go to the hospital Jane," she said in the most matter of fact voice she could muster, but under the pressure of those all-seeing eyes it was impossible to conceal the apprehension in her expression. She could feel her brow furrowing and knew he could see it when she pulled away from him.

"What's your address here?" she asked.

His glower turned obstinate and tired.

"No," he whispered, sort of desperately.

She felt horrible.

"No what, Jane?" she countered innocently. "I asked your address."

He shook the mug at her.

She took it, laid it to one side and took hold of both his hands. She knew full well what he meant. And the meeting of their eyes confirmed their understanding.

"You know what Lisbon."

It was a simple statement, but his tone was still verging on desperate. "I'm fine. I promise Teresa, really. Just get your man to write me a prescription and I'll be fine."

Lisbon's heart sank with a heaviness that made her whole body slump and she didn't give a damn that she let him see it.

Sometimes she felt her man's illogically stubborn disregard for his own well-being was too much to bear. Too damned selfish. Through all the long years of his quest for vengeance, when he honestly felt his life was of no value to anyone left on earth, she had been able understand, if not forgive him for it.

But not now.

Not when he was free and he had an unspoken responsibility to her.

The responsibility that comes with love.

So she trained her big sad eyes on him, trying to make him see, that if it wasn't for the depth of her love she would just take hold of his big beautiful face with it's big beautiful smile and it's soppy puppy dog eyes and strangle the stupid selfishness out of him.

But he just looked at her and carried on with his croaky ramble.

" - and it's a thoroughly researched and proven fact that patients recover more quickly in the bosom of their own home. I've read the studies - you know it's true Lisbon - it was in last month's copy of -"

At that she snorted through gathering tears.

"Yeah, you fool. That's after they've been examined, diagnosed and treated by professionals who actually know what they're talking about. Not know-it-alls who read too much. They fix their patients in the hospital then send them home to convalesce."

"Are you saying this - guy's a - quack, Lisbon? - Because if -" Jane spluttered out before collapsing into a fit of coughing that had her grabbing his hand and rubbing his back in an effort to just - do - something.

"Please Patrick," she pleaded with him when he had at last recovered and had slumped weakly back on his pillows. "Dr. Nicholson is one of those professionals. That's why he wants you to get the best treatment. You're not being fair."

At this point the doctor interrupted to make his position clear.

"Mr. Jane, I'm not going to prescribe anything unless I have a clear diagnosis. And the fact is I'm pretty certain you have pneumonia. I simply want you to get x-rays to confirm my suspicions. Then you can get the drugs. If I thought you had a simple chest infection, believe me, you would have the paper work and my bill in your hands by now and the beautiful Miss Lisbon here would be on her way down to the pharmacy."

A flash bulb went off somewhere in the depths of Jane's perverse brain and suddenly he exclaimed brightly.

"You mean all we have to do is get some pictures taken, then I can get the drugs and come back here to bed?"

The doctor's bushy eyebrows rose independently in a cockeyed expression of surprise, "Well, yes - potentially, but if -"

Lisbon smothered a smug smile as Jane conveniently ignored the word pneumonia and interrupted again almost cheerfully, flinging an arm out to point across her.

"Well what are we waiting for? Lisbon, there's a cleanish suit and a fresh shirt in that cupboard there."

He threw back the covers and began to crawl out of bed.

Dr. Nicholson looked on in awe as Lisbon obediently leapt to find Jane's clothes with a triumphant bounce. He understood. She'd got her way. Yet the poor man felt he'd won the argument.

Patrick sat quietly on the edge of the bed, catching his breath and beaming boyishly up at Teresa who in turn smiled down at him indulgently.

"But no ambulance," he said.

"No. No ambulance," she promised. "I'll drive you."


	3. Chapter 3

Lisbon jumped out of the car and went round to the passenger side where Jane had pushed his door half open but still sat motionless in his seat. He was staring at the double height, sliding glass doors that nestled under a huge, internally lit box sign. Emergencies, the sign proclaimed in arresting bright blue on starkest white. Underneath, unlit and in smaller letters, were the words Pedestrian Entrance.

It was perhaps a good twenty paces away from the short stay drop off spaces where they had to park.

Jane thought it looked more like twenty miles.

Lisbon shoved her bag up onto her shoulder and pulled the door open wider, "Come on then," she said and stuck out a hand.

Jane gave her a blank look and ignored her offer of help. "It says emergencies," he informed her instead, in a plaintive little croak. He swung his legs round to sit hunched on the edge of the seat, facing the entrance, and pulled his faithful blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I'm not an emergency," he grumbled.

It was the first time he'd spoken lucidly and directly to her since they climbed into her car and he leant forward to crank up the heating before slumping back into his reclined seat with his eyes closed. By the time he'd managed to get himself dressed and tidied and walked the few yards to her vehicle he'd been breathless and exhausted, all thoughts of resistance or teasing long forgotten. And as they'd driven to the hospital he'd been restless but quiet. All she'd heard from him on the fifteen minute journey were some almost incoherent mumblings about a blue dress.

" - the blue dress, Charlotte? - the one with the forget-me-nots -"

Then a few minutes later, frowning and agitated, but with eyes closed.

" - I know darling - I'm sorry - mummy put it in the wash - there's nothing I can do - "

In all the years of their unusual acquaintance the only words he'd spoken of his beloved daughter had been belladonna induced, and that he could never bring himself to mention her by name had made Lisbon sadder as the years went by and they grew closer.

She understood. Of course she did.

She knew in her heart that these unconscious dream words didn't count, and so it made her sad that they weren't real. She wondered if these sad moments still came to him when he was awake, and if they did would he ever be able to share. But, as uncomfortable as it made her feel, to hear him talk of Charlotte now, after all this time, warmed her heart.

With a smile she'd placed her hand firmly on his thigh and squeezed, then left it there for the remainder of the trip.

It seemed to do the trick; after a bit Jane had smiled serenely and murmured.

"- it's okay, Sugar - it's cool - "

Then his thoughts had seemed to drift to a more tranquil place until the jerk of the handbrake intruded and he woke with a start.

Now, as his eyes flickered sluggishly between the bright lights beyond the emergency entrance and the warm look of concern on her face, they seemed fearful, as if confused by some indefinable dilemma that he couldn't quite pin down; like he was battling with something that he didn't understand himself.

And no matter how much he told himself to look at her, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the sign above the doors.

A sky blue, neon warning.

And a moment that Lisbon had been sort of expecting.

She put a hand gently on his arm and started to explain.

"Yeah," she said. "It says Emergencies. Steve - Dr. Nicholson has a friend who's a senior doctor in the department. He said you'd have to wait for ages without an appointment if we went direct to radiology, even if he phoned ahead."

It wasn't strictly the truth about what she had discussed with the doctor while they'd been plotting their strategy to get Jane proper care, but right now it wouldn't have mattered if she'd told Jane his hair was blue; she knew he wasn't listening when he didn't counter immediately with some biting remark or disapproving look or even a moody sigh.

He simply continued to look at the sign.

Then slowly his attention floated back to her and he stared with eyes so clouded that she couldn't see their true colour, nor that little darker fleck that made his left eye different from the right.

"He's going to see you there, as a favour," she told him, expecting him to ask 'Who? and Why?', but he didn't.

Instead her consultant's lids fluttered and, at last, he said, quite randomly. "I'm sorry Teresa."

His complexion had paled to ghostly, and his forehead was glistening with sweat, so she tightened her grip on his arm, worried that he was going to faint, but he seemed to find himself again and shook his head and wiped at his face, then looked at her with an expression full of innocence and sorrow.

She didn't understand.

"Sorry Jane? Why ?" she asked carefully. "What have you got to be sorry for - other than the usual?" She gave him a little smile and a playful nudge to cheer him up. "Everyone gets ill."

He continued to look her right in the face and admitted, "I don't think I can make it through those doors," then he hung his head and looked down at his grubby brown shoes. And there before her was the image of the same man who'd walked into the bullpen all those years ago, cowed and ashamed and helpless, at war with the world, and with his own arms wrapped round him for safety.

Lisbon was at once both amused and worried.

"Jane - Patrick - are you scared? Don't you want to go in?"

He shuddered and heaved in some air to fuel a wry smile.

"Scared? Why would you think that," he said, giving another little shake of his head, " No, just don't think I can walk that far."

Lisbon was really tempted to laugh at him out of sheer frustration, but at least his declaration made her relax somewhat.

She couldn't restrain a grin as relief temporarily flooded in. "That's nothing to be sorry for you idiot. I told you you don't have to be sorry for being sick." She felt for his hands through the multiple folds of the blanket; they were curled in tight fists. He _was_ scared. "Don't worry, we can get some help."

His attempt at a smile had long since turned sad when he tried to explain himself. "No. No, it's not that I'm sorry about - it's not that at all."

"What then?"

She was puzzled. He wasn't making much sense.

"I'm sorry for being - disingenuous - I lied to you."

He looked ill and nervous and pathetic - and still the man was apologizing - something he rarely felt compelled to do.

And he chose _now_ to do it.

She felt tears welling and squished them away. Then the usual dread kicked in. Exasperation crept into her tone.

"What now, Jane? What have you done?"

"Oh, I haven't - it's nothing - "

Jane's words died on his lips when, even through his fevered haze, he could see that his girlfriend didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

So he waited, just watching her struggle.

"I'm sorry," he repeated softly, when at last he knew it was safe; when he judged she was leaning toward laughter, albeit the strangled sort. "It's just - I feel terrible Lisbon - I feel much worse than I let on - and I didn't tell you - I hoped it would just go away - but I should have told you."

At once, as if his body felt the need to prove the lie, the foolish mentalist dissolved into a short fit of coughing that had him bent double in pain, but when he recovered and looked up to get her reaction, his paper thin mask was cracked into the tiniest of grins.

" - but bad things do happen in hospitals, you know."

There was nothing Lisbon could do - she had to stifle a laugh.

There was her clown.

Archetypal - crying on the inside, he'd once said - and grinning through the pain.

But _her_ clown.

And he'd broken her resolve to be patient.

She loved her clown dearly but he drove her mad, so she growled and tugged him roughly to unsteady feet.

"You know what Paddy," she panted through the effort of disentangling the surprised man from his dragging blanket. "How many years is it since you landed on me? Don't you think I know you well enough by now to spot when you're bluffing. Why in hell's name do you think I brought you here?"

She slung one of his two limp arms over her shoulder and kissed him soundly on one hot pink cheek of his otherwise grey face, threw the bedraggled blanket back in the car and closed the door with a hefty nudge of her backside.

"Shall I leave you here on the floor while I go get a wheelchair? Or can we do this on our own?"

Jane raised half a bashful smile and a bit of energy and weighed up the alternatives.

Eventually he said, "Okay, but no wheels," and bravely made the twenty paces to the dreaded doors.

* * *

Waiting room seating can be very, very uncomfortable, especially when you have a headache, a stuffed up nose and are tired with worry, and particularly if you've been sitting on that seating for over forty minutes. It was only natural that Agent Lisbon's frustration at the lack of news was beginning to reach boiling point. In fact it was about to catapult her into flashing an always useful FBI badge officiously into the face of the poor overworked receptionist, when an apparently cheerful and rather plump nurse approached her with a clipboard and a practised welcoming smile.

Having made eye contact, the nurse dropped her smile and glanced down absent-mindedly at the paperwork she carried. "Miss. Lisbon?"

Lisbon, in turn abandoned her fast developing scowl and sprung immediately from her bum numbing seat.

"You're here with Mr. Patrick Jane, right?" the nurse asked tersely, but didn't wait for confirmation and didn't raise her eyes. "He's just being settled into the ward," she carried on, " - then you can see him for a few minutes."

Lisbon heard the small balloon of optimism she carried in her heart for Jane (in case of emergencies) deflate with a whimper and drift away in the form of a weary sigh. She shoved her hands in her pockets to hide her desire to slap the nurse - the nurse who didn't seem to care.

"Wait a minute - you're keeping him in?" she heard her own polite, but curt voice ask and she wondered for a moment why she now seemed to be as much in denial as Jane had been earlier; she who had been the one to encourage him to come to the place she knew he needed to be - and not just for 'pictures'. It felt like when reality kicked in the tables were turned. "But he only came for x-rays," she heard herself protesting.

The unapproachable Nurse Fenton ran a cursory eye over her notes for confirmation, then flicked the page over and scratched something out with her ballpoint. For the first time she looked up and again made eye contact and Lisbon perused a tanned, open face with grave turquoise eyes that had seen too much time in the emergency room. They were hardened by professional detachment; steely and wary. She longed to connect but had spent too long trying to protect her feelings.

"Yes, that's what it says on the notes; chest x-rays," she explained dispassionately while Lisbon shuffled her impatient feet. "But there's a note that Dr. MacIntosh has agreed to carry out a thorough examination. Apparently, his doctor was concerned. In any case, it appears Mr. Jane collapsed in the elevator on the way to the radiology department. I'm afraid we have had to admit him."

Lisbon's shock and anxiety spilled out as a stream of questions. "Where is he? Do you know how he is? I mean is he okay? When can I see him?"

Nurse Fenton looked at her watch, then referred back to her clipboard. When she looked up there was almost sympathy in her cold azure eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't have any details," she said in a slightly more solicitous tone. "But someone from the medical wards will let the desk know when they've made Mr. Jane comfortable; that should be about twenty minutes I'd guess, then you'll be able to see him. I understand Dr. MacIntosh will be there to talk to you."

Frustrated, impatient, worried and thirsty, Lisbon looked at her own watch.

"Okay, thanks," she huffed irritably, regretting her tone instantly and hoping that the nurse didn't notice. "Is there a vending machine anywhere?"

The nurse's demeanour softened unexpectedly, like someone switched her light on. She let the clipboard drop to her side, scanned the smaller woman's rigid body and drained face, then smiled warmly.

"Look, why don't you go get a coffee and a bite to eat," she suggested. "You look like you could use it - and it's almost past lunchtime, the cafeteria starts winding down their hot food after one, but you can catch something if you hurry. I could leave a message with reception to let the staff know where to find you."

* * *

The distraction of a surprisingly tasty pastry washed down with mediocre coffee didn't do a lot to quash Teresa's growing fears for her poorly consultant; she didn't expect it to, didn't think anything would until she got to see him. The refreshments filled a bit of time and some of the space in her empty stomach, but they also gave her renewed energy to think, which she _so_ didn't want to do.

She'd always known that what ailed Jane was more than the simple cold she was suffering from and which was already fading into insignificance; the cold he had so kindly given her. Not that she blamed him at all, as far as she was concerned what was hers was now his and she hoped he felt the same - she was sure he did. That even applied to colds and stomach upsets. Yes, she'd known he was actually _ill,_ but once they'd entered those hospital doors and she'd gotten him where she knew he should be, she'd let go of the fight to convince him of it and begun to convince _herself_ everything was fine. He'd have the pictures of his beautiful body taken (he'd assured her, as he was struggling into his navy suit and powder blue linen shirt, that the nursing staff would be stunned), he'd abuse the doctors, charm said nurses and be on his way with a fist full of antibiotics. Job done. And they'd stop for take out at the burger bar half way home.

That was what she told herself should have been so as she sat tearing at an old kneenex in her pocket. She pulled it out and teased out the messy bits, leaving them on the table in a scattered pattern of pulpy fragments. She stared at them. If Jane had been sitting across from her and the paper hadn't been such a mess, she would have been staring at a swan by now .. or a crane .. or another frog.

She knew what she'd been telling herself about Jane's situation wasn't true; she'd been right all along - the way he protested proved it - and that was before he confessed to being brave (or was it cowardly) and said sorry - and now worst of all, she'd heard the word 'collapsed'.

It didn't exactly help.

She took out her phone and called Cho.

He didn't pick up, so she left a message asking him to drop by the Airstream to make sure she hadn't left it unlocked in her impatience to get Jane organised.

She called Abbott to update him on Jane and book another day off.

He said, "Take all the time you need". He didn't need the hassle or the bacteria in his workplace.

When that was done, there were still five more minutes of the twenty she'd been expecting to wait and she had nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and fret - so she cleared away the tissue debris, and Googled the word pneumonia.

The list of appropriate sites had just appeared on screen when the figure of a rather distinguished older gentleman cast a shadow over her phone.

"Hi. Miss. Lisbon?" a rich baritone voice interrupted her search. "I'm Barry MacIntosh - Dr. Mac, to friends and enemies alike." His smile expanded into a reassuring toothy grin. "Mind if I sit down?"

He pulled out a chair from the table opposite and straddled it untidily; he had very long legs, and wore maroon coloured cords and gingery suede shoes she noticed, topped off with a shock of nearly white, wavy hair. She imagined Jane's would look like that one day.

"Steve Nicholson asked me to take a look at your friend," he told her, not sure she realized who he was.

He extended a strong hand across the table, which she shook briefly as she pushed back her chair to stand.

"Teresa Lisbon," she said rather abruptly, pocketing her phone and grabbing her bag with a purpose. "Pleased to meet you."

The doctor remained seated.

Lisbon regarded him warily.

"Uh - can I see him?"

Dr. Mac leaned back and grinned once more, amused at the small, rather impressive but soberly dressed woman's directness. "Sure," he agreed. "Shall we walk and talk?"

He got up from the seat he'd just gotten into, unfolding his legs with all the grace of a lanky gazelle and replaced both their chairs neatly in their places under the dark, faux wood table. Then he bowed with an eerily familiar flourish that threatened to bring the smile back to her face and he ushered her out to the long main corridor, chatting as they went.

On the way up to the floor where the medical wards were, riding the very same elevator where Jane had finally given in to his illness, Dr. Mac appraised Lisbon of her consultant's condition.

"You were right to bring him in you know, Dr. Nicholson was correct in his initial diagnosis - your friend has double pneumonia."

"Double?" Lisbon blanched and gasped, her eyes going wide.

"Don't worry, that just means it's affecting both lungs," Dr. Mac stooped a little to meet her troubled green eyes and continued. "We have to do some tests to determine the cause and type. Then I'll be able to tell you more."

"What about the x-rays? He came for x-rays," she asked, somewhat heartened that double didn't mean twice as bad, but eager for information. "Didn't they tell you anything?"

"We didn't get him to radiology, I'm afraid. It was more important to get him stabilized," he explained. "And, believe me, getting semi conscious, panicking male patients to stay still to get their portrait taken is no easy task. It will wait."

Despite the joke, Lisbon looked taken aback - stabilizing was something you did to patients hovering on the brink. She willed her voice to be strong and calm, like the professional she was, but it stuck in her throat and came out falsely bright, and fragile, like antique glass.

"Oh - okay."

The elevator doors slid open and they spilled out with the other occupants - the anonymous and unnoticed people outside her own private Jane worry bubble - and the doctor guided her with a light touch of her shoulder.

Lisbon's hands were shaking, she was sure he could see it and feel it.

If he did the doctor did nothing more than exude an extra air of calmness and call on his thirty odd years of experience. Say nothing unnecessary, but do everything you can, was his watchword, so he just smiled reassuringly.

"Mr. Jane's room is just up here, 342. He'll be pleased to see you, I expect."

It was ridiculous, embarrassing. Fewer than a dozen times in her life she'd felt like this and let it show - and most of them over Jane - but she knew instinctively this kind man understood.

"You mustn't worry Miss Lisbon. As they say, he's in the best place. He came round quite quickly, just needed a little oxygen. He's obviously exhausted and his blood pressure had dropped,"

Dr. Mac held open the door of Room 342 and Lisbon ducked under his arm. "There you are, he's resting comfortably now. We'll get the pictures when he's had a few hours to recover, so aside from that you can sit with him the rest of the day. Visiting hours are til eight, so you don't need to rush off."

The room was large, big enough to accommodate two beds, but presently occupied only by Jane. It was softly lit, the pastel, abstract drapes around the bed pulled right back and the blind at the south facing window half closed to ward off the unforgiving early afternoon sun. Behind the blind the window was open, making the slats rattle a little. But in spite of this the room was warm and the first thing Lisbon noticed was a large table fan whirring away on a trolley near the bed.

A young, russet haired nurse was recording stats from the multiple sets of differently coloured displays that monitored her patient's condition.

Dr. Mac walked over and scanned the readouts, giving nothing away, and nodded to the nurse.

"Here, Miss. Lisbon," he said, pulling out the brown padded high back chair usually reserved for patients. He placed it tight up against the bed. "Make yourself comfortable. This is Sylvia," he smiled toward the nurse. "I have to go now, I'm supposed to be downstairs, but I'll be back later this evening. Sylvia will be looking after Mr. Jane til the end of her shift. Ask her anything you need to know."

As the doctor left quietly Sylvia tucked the completed chart into its slot at the end of Jane's bed and moved to stand with Lisbon next to the chair.

"It's Teresa, isn't it?" she asked in a low voice. "He's only just fallen asleep." She leant forward to smooth the light sheet that covered Jane to just above his waist , then looked up with sparkling pale blue eyes. "He tried so hard to stay awake til you got here, poor dear. He's worn right out."

Lisbon relaxed a little and removed her leather jacket for the first time that day; it had been the first one that came to hand that morning and in retrospect a sticky mistake on such a warm day, but her mind had been otherwise occupied. She laid it over the back of the other chair in the room; a metal framed plastic monstrosity of the type designed for cheapness and to make sure you didn't over stay your welcome.

"That's Jane, always the stubborn one," she commented, fixing her gaze firmly on him as she sank into the upholstered chair at his side. "Not that he always gets what he wants."

The nurse perched precariously on the edge of the bed.

Jane appeared to be sleeping peacefully, more settled than she'd seen him for a couple of days. He was uncovered except for the thin cotton sheet and hospital gown; bare arms resting by his sides, slender fingers unusually still. Lisbon lifted the hand that was nearer to her, the one encumbered by a drip delivery fluids. She lifted it and let her fingers run over the contours of the back of his hand, tracing the parts that weren't covered by tape securing the needle into his flesh. His skin still felt hot to the touch, just like the last time she saw him, but dry and loose as it slid over the bones, slipping like silk across pebbles. Dehydrated. When _her_ fingers finished their journey she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the soft tips of _his_ fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze. He uttered a little moan and flexed them in her hand.

She sat still and watched him, studying what she could see of his face. He had an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, but from what she could see his expression looked untroubled by the restless thoughts that had plagued him in the car. He looked - innocent - in every sense of the word - like -

\- like - butter wouldn't melt.

It was a thought that couldn't even be a thought without an accompanying ironic smirk - and perfect description for that wicked man - the charlatan whose wrath sometimes knew no bounds, but whose sunny smile could banish a hoary winter frost, and whose acid tongue could slice through artifice and pomposity like hot wire through a block of ice - or butter. A man of contradictions.

"How is he?" she asked the nurse.

"He'll be fine. He's much better now. When they brought him up he was confused for while, but he soon settled. His temperature is very high, and he wasn't getting enough oxygen - his sats were dangerously low. That maybe why he collapsed. But his BP's much better now and Dr. Mac's put him on some strong IV antibiotics to try to fight the infection and meds to get the fever down."

"Has he been misbehaving?" Lisbon asked the old, old question, even though from the look of her consultant he was in no shape to cause a ruckus.

"He's been good as gold, considering," Sylvia giggled, showing pretty dimples that complemented her eyes. "Called a young intern a quack and started making duck noises, but that was when he started coming round and saw the white coat and stethoscope. Apparently Dr. Nicholson left a note to expect that sort of thing. People say all sorts when they're out of it though. I've seen worse. Far worse to be honest - at least he didn't curse or fight."

Then the pleasant young nurse paused, rearranging a stray auburn curl distractedly and looking thoughtful, "He is worried about your daughter though - after we got him into bed he was rambling - it's only the fever - something about a party - she doesn't like her dress. But it was strange, later when he was feeling better and wanting to know where you were, I asked him about her - but he got all emotional - went quiet - then he said it didn't matter."

Lisbon didn't interrupt. She kept her composure and kept her eyes trained on the sleeping Jane, breathed herself calm in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

"No," she said simply. "He wouldn't want to talk about her. She died some years ago - she wasn't mine - I'm not his wife."

Poor Sylvia was flustered, but covered it well.

"I'm so sorry," she said, only now noticing the absence of a ring on Lisbon's finger. "I shouldn't have assumed. Only - well these days you can't tell, can you? So many career women keep their maiden name. My older brother's wife - she insisted. And Mr. Jane - he didn't stop asking for you - so I - '

Lisbon cut short the young woman's embarrassed outpouring with an understanding hand on her arm.

"It's alright. Really. I've known him for years, so it comes with the territory. It's a very complicated story, and his wife died a long time ago - but you're right, we are together now - at last."

Sylvia looked edgy and her fingers crept to touch her fob watch. It was obvious she was itching to get on with her work, and more probably get out of the room, but didn't want to seem rude, so Lisbon decided to change the subject and get the answer to something she was curious about before the nurse left. It didn't seem fair to spoil the girl's day by letting her leave under a cloud.

"Sylvia, I can see you need to get to your next patient, but can you fill me in on Dr. MacIntosh. I thought he worked on emergencies, but he seems to have his foot well in the door up here."

"Oh, yes. This is Dr. Mac's department. He's normally in charge, but he's on secondment down there to cover maternity leave. It offers the chance for his second in command to have a taste of being in charge here for a few months. Works very well, but he can't stay away."

"How does he know Steve Nicholson?" Lisbon asked, wondering about the relationship between two men of such disparate age.

Sylvia's pretty eyes lit up. "Dr. Nicholson? Oh, Dr. Mac was sort of his mentor, Steve worked under him here for a while and they got close, like father and son, from what I understand."

As she was considering what she knew of the two men and more particularly the rather dashing Dr. Nicholson, a flash bulb went off in Sylvia's brain, and a grin of realization spread across her girlish features. "He works for the FBI now doesn't he?" she asked excitedly. "Oh my, does that mean your Mr. Jane's an agent. Oh, what fun. How cool."

Lisbon smiled warmly and looked at her blissfully unaware consultant. "Well now," she said. "I'm not quite sure what I'd call Patrick - but he's certainly not an agent."

* * *

The first thing Lisbon did when the impressionable young nurse had made her hurried exit, was to drag the bulky but comfy chair round to the other side of the bed. The machines on her side were distracting with their flickering lights, she couldn't get close to her consultant through the massed wires and tubing and most important of all she needed to hold on to the whole of his hand and see more of his handsome face.

The click of the door as it closed, as unobtrusive as it was, disturbed Jane's slumber and he began to stir. His legs moved uneasily, his head rolled to one side and he began to groan and mutter, but he seemed not to wake.

Once she had made herself comfortable Lisbon's eyes did not stray from him, watching every twitch of his mouth and wriggle of restless hands and feet.

It was the first precious moment she had been alone with him for almost two hours. It had seemed like a lifetime and with each passing minute Lisbon's heart ached for the feel of the man she had grown to love.

She longed to take him fully into her arms and never let him go. She needed to feel the beat of his heart and his breath on her cheek, the curls at the nape of his neck and the downy blond hairs that covered the skin of his muscular arms. She needed to hold all of him to prove to herself he was real and that he was okay, but she had to make do with the bits she could reach.

So she let her hands glide over what she could touch of his face, smoothing away the lines that drew maps on his forehead, around his eyes and down the side of his cheek. He made soft little noises, but didn't wake.

As her fingertips slid down to the corner of his lips, her mind wandered to the power of his smile, to the marvellous transformation those hard earned creases in his smooth golden skin underwent on the days when the smile shone on his face. So she smoothed and soothed with the tips of her fingers and whispered sweet words of encouragement close to his ear and she wished he would wake up, healthy and happy, and give her just one of those glorious smiles.

"So, Boy Wonder. What are we going to do with you?" she asked him. "You know I need you, don't you? I've got cases to close and a file full of puzzles that I can't solve without you. You know that don't you Jane?"

He sighed and coughed and turned his head to face her, but still didn't wake.

She picked up his unfettered hand and gripped it tightly between both of her own, and was suddenly aware of the ring on his finger, that unacknowledged barrier perpetually between them, but powerless to keep them apart. She didn't resent it, this symbol of Jane's promise to his wife. It's importance to him had always seemed to her to be proof of his most laudable qualities, his capacity for love, his loyalty and his tenacity. She only had to recall the times she had caught him unawares, and had seen what it meant to him, to know that she would never let it stand between them. But still she wondered what it would take to break the spell of the small band of gold. Or would it simply change it's significance as the days passed and their relationship grew stronger, til the barrier melted away in the strength of their love.

She lifted his hand and kissed the knuckles again.

"Do you know how much you're scaring me? Do you even know how much I care? Because I sure as hell didn't know - until today."

She laid Jane's hand down gently, to rest at his side, and covered it with hers, then she sat back in the chair to watch him sleep.

"I need you to get well, Patrick Jane. You can give up the con now."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

Rhythmic pressure - painful pounding on a lifeless chest - breathe, Jane, breathe - visions - a man floating lifeless on top of a pond - breathe, Jane, breathe - precious air sealed away inside muddy bubbles ascending to break the surface and disappear - choking - coughing - images of a golden crucifix dangling on a delicate chain - keep breathing.

Nothingness - more nothingness - then calm - nothingness and peace.

Patrick Jane slept.

Noises - tap, tap, tap like knuckles on a closed door - maybe a green woodpecker rapping on a big old oak tree - then suddenly clearer - sharper - yes - knuckles on wood - knocking on a door.

Then came something that did make sense; the sound of a sharp female voice, a voice that rang bells, but modulated, being considerately quiet.

Teresa Lisbon called "Come in," giving another person permission to enter, and Nurse Sylvia Sanderson wafted into the room bringing with her the scent of wild roses and vanilla.

Jane woke with a shudder.

When Lisbon saw his blinking eyes full of confusion and distress, and his mouth agape and gasping for a moment, like a drowning man, she leant forward to push away the damp tendrils of hair that straggled on his forehead.

"Hey, calm down sleepyhead," she told him tenderly. "You okay?"

Jane had no idea why he had no idea what was going on, but the eyes that came into focus like a blurry still from an old, old movie, were green and smiling and the voice he heard was one he had loved for years. He figured everything must be relatively okay.

The contortions of the face that looked up at her spoke to Lisbon of a brain that was attempting to form words but couldn't quite find the way. So she lifted the oxygen mask, slipped the elasticated strap from underneath his head and put it to one side. She caressed his cheeks and smoothed his hair gently, til she saw the fog in his head start to lift and the veil of mist roll back from his eyes. She saw his face relax and she saw recognition.

She smiled broadly at him and Jane gradually began to respond, licking his lips with a clumsy tongue.

"Hey y'self," he whispered, smiling at her absently.

Nurse Sanderson had already started filling out Jane's chart, but she stopped, pocketing the pen she was using, to free a hand and take the mask. "Don't worry, I'll take this," she said to Lisbon, before smiling warmly at Jane, explaining. "I was supposed to swap it for a nasal cannula anyway; you'll be much more comfortable. I would have done it before, but I didn't want to disturb you while you were sleeping. We'll leave it off for a few minutes, but let me know if you feel yourself getting breathless or drowsy."

She continued working on Jane, lifting his arm delicately to slip a PB cuff on, while he and Lisbon talked.

"How you feeling now?" Lisbon was asking, searching every inch of his face for signs of duplicity now that she could see it clearly. "And don't say excellent, because I'll know you're lying."

After some thought, Jane replied, "Excellent."

There was the hint of a twinkle and a sideways glance at Sylvia, but as he spoke Lisbon saw a shiver run through him and the twinkle slipped away.

"Freezing though, and thirsty," he moaned, tugging vainly at the top of the sheet, which was folded neatly down and wouldn't pull any higher.

The loosely curled fist she was now grasping was hot - not cold, and clammy, where minutes ago it had been dry, so Lisbon ran her hand down Jane's arm to be sure he knew what he was saying. The skin still burnt under her touch, yet she couldn't disbelieve the spasmodic quivering of his body, or the hairs standing to attention beneath the tips of her fingers. His cold discomfort was there for anyone to see or feel - the contradiction of fever - chills, flushes, clarity, confusion.

But still, despite all, the magician had conjured that indefatigable twinkle. If only for a moment.

Lisbon reached to turn off the fan. "Okay, we'll turn this off," then addressing the nurse. "Is that alright?"

"We can, for a while if you're cold Mr. Jane." Sylvia agreed, unquestioning. "But we need to try to get your temperature down."

Jane didn't seem aware of the conversation; all chilliness seemingly forgotten as for the first time he really looked at his surroundings. His brow slowly creased in a puzzled frown at Lisbon.

"How long have I been here? Uh - wh - what happened?"

Lisbon took hold of his hand and gave a reassuring squeeze.

"You fainted in the elevator on the way to have your x-rays done. You don't remember?"

"Not much," he admitted. "I remember being very hot, very tired - claustrophobic - walls - mirrors - blue shapes - and somebody asking stupid questions."

He shrugged hopelessly. "I don't know ."

Then he launched into one of his big exasperated sighs, but the performance was punctuated by jerky gasps and terminated by wracking coughs that he fought to control.

When, at last, he was calmer Nurse Sanderson sliiped on the promised nasal cannula to supply much needed oxygen.

Although upset by Jane's obvious pain, Lisbon found she was turning virtual cartwheels in her mind and fighting hard to conceal her great relief as she reached for the water jug and poured a little for him to sip. She was pleasantly surprised to say the least. There had been no sign of any protestations when he realised where he was; not a whimper of 'I'm not staying' or 'when can I get out of here'. Jane had taken the news uncommonly well, which in retrospect, it occurred to her may or may not be good news.

Anyway, she found herself crossing one set of fingers behind her back and wrapping the other around his shaky hand as he struggled to sit up while simultaneously keeping the flimsy plastic cup steady.

Jane didn't say another word, but then he didn't have to.

As the cold water sharpened up his senses to … oh … about sixty five point two percent, the news that he had been, in Patrick Jane speak, incarcerated against his will, sunk in and it soon became apparent in the slumping of his already drawn features and the darkening of his already dull eyes, that he was, perhaps, not entirely accepting.

Lisbon admonished herself for being prematurely optimistic but hoped that maybe he was going to regard his situation as unavoidable since he was in no condition to do otherwise. Nevertheless, she resigned herself to the prospect that he would probably act in character and be 'difficult'; just to make himself feel better.

True to form he started to grumble moodily. "I'm tired, really tired Lisbon. And hot, much too hot. Why did you turn that fan off?"

"Thought you were cold," she replied with no particular nuance and no reassuring hand squeeze.

Jane went into condescension mode, complete with a weary eye roll.

"No, Teresa," he told her. "Not cold. Hot."

Her expression remained steadfastly aloof for a moment.

Then, "Okay," she said sweetly and smiled at him through slightly gritted teeth.

And Jane gave up.

He threw back the sheet he'd only two minutes ago pulled up around him then let his head slump back onto his pillows, wheezing and perspiring profusely. "Need to go back to sleep," he declared and closed his eyes.

He lay there, in recovery, panting as silently as he could, but only long enough for Lisbon and the nurse to exchange knowing woman-to-woman glances, then he pleaded in a sleepy mutter, "But first, can I have some tea? And would you turn that fan back on?"

Lisbon's eyes automatically flew up to look at the ceiling, then rolled back down to glare at him.

"Okay," she told him sternly, letting go of his hand like it was something dirty. "But if it's on it stays on. And I'll be the judge of whether you're hot or cold from now on."

"Whatever," he groaned with barely a movement of his lips.

Then he whispered, eyes still shut in a blank face.

"Love you anyway."

Lisbon's sour expression melted to a flushed half smile and Jane received his reassuring hand squeeze.

When the nurse had completed her allotted tasks and was ready to leave, she interrupted politely, speaking, not to her patient, but to his more amenable friend.

"Miss Lisbon, I'm finished here and I have to get to my next patient. Sorry to have to rush, but I wanted to tell you that the blood tests and sputum samples have come back. They're with Dr. Mac now, so I expect he'll be up to see you as soon as he's free."

"Oh, goodee, Dr. Quack has my blood and spit," a pathetic croak piped up again. "When did I give him those?" The patient from hell opened his eyes halfway and attempted to look accusingly at poor Nurse Sanderson. "Is he coming to tell me if I'll live or die, Sylvia?"

Lisbon shot Jane a fierce look.

"Ignore him, he's just pushing your buttons," she told the nurse, who stood poised to open the door and make her escape. "It's what he does when he's unhappy."

.. and worried .. or scared … or not in control …

The redoubtable Nurse Sanderson's feathers remained unruffled. "I don't know the results, I'm afraid. Even if I did I'm not authorised to disclose them. But you mustn't worry Mr. Jane, Dr. Mac's a great doctor," she gave a wry laugh and added with a wink at Lisbon. "No wildfowl in this hospital."

The consultant's barely audible reply sounded suspiciously sincere and more than a little vulnerable. "Oh I do worry though, Sylvia," he said. "Worry's my middle name."

"Shhh, Jane," a frustrated Lisbon pushed up from her chair and rounded the bed to turn the fan back on. "You're going to be fine. I'll go get you some tea."

The two women left together, sharing gossipy tales about the antics of curmudgeonly consultants and other infamous tricksters.

When Lisbon returned the patient, ostensibly, was snoozing.

She ran a wary eye over him; if there was one area of expertise in which she excelled, it was the study of her consultant's napping habits.

She nudged his left shoulder very gently. "Jane, you gonna drink this?"

She was pretty sure he was awake; he'd pulled his cover up over his chest, as best he could, and the fingers of his free hand were skimming the stitched edge, searching a loose thread he'd discovered. She watched as a wave of chill ripple through his body and wash over his face. He frowned, then opened his eyes and saw her. The frown dissolved.

Lisbon grinned at the vaguely loopy look it left.

She put a tray on the table beside the fan pushing it to one side to make room.

"Come on, let's get you sitting up properly," she urged, moving to raise the bed head a little more. "You'll enjoy your tea better."

His look became less loopy. "Tea?" he muttered happily … as happily as he could.

"Yes, and I got us some pieces of fruit … melon … it's juice, it'll help you stay cool and it's easy to eat."

"I'm not hot," he insisted, but Jane obediently shuffled his bottom to sit into the angle of the mattress, while Lisbon plumped his pillows. Sitting upright made his head swim and wobble a bit at first, but it settled and soon he found himself sitting there smiling affectionately at this caring side of his buttoned up woman.

He took the white porcelain cup that had miraculously appeared from within the bowels of the hospital's plastic filled storeroom. He held it lovingly between both slightly uncertain hands, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tugging of the annoying drip he was attached to, and he sipped, savouring the warm wet liquid, not caring that he couldn't taste a thing. It helped his shivers though and he felt the tension release from his shoulders and the next breath come more easily.

Lisbon sat watching Jane drink, happy to see a little better humour creep into her boyfriend's pallid features as the tea worked its usual magic. He slowly finished most of it and handed her the almost empty cup with a grateful little sigh.

She ate a piece of cantaloupe, then popped another piece into his mouth when he grinned like a small boy and opened it wide.

"This is delicious Lisbon," he told her, in a clearer voice, when he had finished savouring the fruit and eaten three more pieces. "It's helping my throat."

"That's good Jane," she told him.

But Lisbon was sad.

She was pleased that he had eaten. Pleased that he was accepting help. Pleased, even though it was only she who was giving and she knew that, although it had been difficult in the past, he would almost always accept help from her now. But it made her sad that she was the only one; not the only one who would offer, but that hers was the only offer he would willingly accept without suspicion.

She wondered, did he still regard himself as undeserving after all these years and after his presumably cathartic redemption, if redemption it was. Or was this continuing refusal to accept help, or to admit physical weakness that made it necessary to do so, simply his loathing and apparent fear of the medical profession? Was it as simple as that?

She had to ask.

Although he looked absolutely awful, and kind of spaced out, Jane seemed quite happy sitting quietly nibbling the occasion piece of melon, so Lisbon took the plunge.

"Patrick," she used his given name to delve into the personal, "Why are you so scared of hospitals? Why do you hate doctors?"

He looked aghast.

"I'm not. I don't," he protested, covering his mouth to stifle a cough, before carrying on with a puzzled frown. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, just the look on your face when we arrived and the way you spoke to that nice young nurse earlier, or maybe the fact that you called an intern a quack to his face. Just little things … you know."

He squirmed and suddenly looked rather sad. "I did? … uh .. well … maybe he looked like a duck?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Maybe."

Jane looked down at his hand enclosed in hers. "I'm not scared Teresa," he said thoughtfully. "Its not that. Honestly."

He hesitated again, avoiding her penetrating but kind gaze and mumbled almost unintelligibly, "I simply don't trust doctors and the like."

"Why?"

He looked up.

"I'm carnie Lisbon," he blurted out as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Lisbon knew a Jane excuse when she heard one.

"That wont wash Jane," she said instantly. "I know your carnie friends are suspicious, but you left that world behind years ago, you don't behave like a carnie. In fact you're more one of us than one of them now."

Jane hoped she would leave well alone if he gave her the right glib answer, so he told her tiredly. "Well Agent Lisbon, you know what they say. You can take the boy out of the carnival, but you can't take the carnival out of the boy."

He regarded her for a moment with hopeful triumph, then closed his eyes for a rest.

She watched him, feeling a bit guilty for making him talk.

When she thought about it though, she had to concede the, yes, there was that wariness of the 'establishment' that leaked through in almost everything he did and said, be it over reaction which manifested in disdain or rudeness, in pulling away or simply masking with carnie showmanship. She didn't count when he used his 'skills' in the name of justice.

Yes. There was still carnie in the boy wonder. Perhaps there always would be.

"Okay," she said. "I'll give you that … you're still a bit of a sideshow when you want to be. But that's not the real reason, is it?"

Jane opened his eyes, swallowed and closed them again, making Lisbon suddenly regret ever having started the conversation. Ordinarily it wouldn't have bothered her putting her secretive consultant on the spot, but right now she couldn't tell whether he was okay, but deflecting or if she had pushed him beyond his physical limits. She was about to take his hand and ask if he wanted to settle down and sleep some more, when he cleared his throat loudly and carried on in a very sore sounding voice.

"It's because they lie to you Teresa." He sounded so sad. "They think because they know stuff you don't, they can pull the wool over your eyes. They tell you everything's going to be alright, when obviously it's probably never going to be."

He stopped for a breather and cleared his troublesome croak again and she was tempted to stop him from continuing, but Jane was determined. His watery eyes bored into hers now and he went on with quiet passion.

"We do it too you know, in law enforcement. We go into a victim's home and tell them lies, at the one time when what they need to hear is the truth. We roll out that tired old throwaway line … 'sorry for your loss' and then we leave them to get on with it," He looked up at her half accusation, half hopelessness. "How many times do we really mean it? Do any of us ever really mean it?"

It hurt. It hurt to hear him say those words.

"That's not fair Jane…" she protested.

He jumped in at once. "I'm not talking about you Teresa. I'm talking generalities. Ninety nine percent of cops and medics. But I'll tell you one thing," he raised his voice as loud as it would go and lean forward. "I always try not to say it unless I mean it. I never lie when I say those words. It's the only thing I'll never lie about … that and the fact that I love you."

"I know …"

Jane simply ploughed on.

"Do you know why though? Do you know why I'll never lie when I say that? It's because I've been down that road before, I know what it is to feel the pain those victims feel. I know what it's like to have a medic say 'you're going to be fine' when you can't keep it together because you're covered in your dead daughter's blood and then have some wet behind the ears cop wander in and tell you he's 'sorry for your loss'."

His energy started to flag again and his breaths were coming short and fast, so Jane let his head sink back into the pillow and continued quietly rambling on with his eyes shut and an expressionless face.

"Loss is permanent … doesn't go away … you learn to live with it …"

He tried to sigh but started coughing, so he lay still and quiet for a bit til he could say what he wanted to say.

"T'resa … I know if I had to travel down that road again … if it happened again … wouldn't make it back … they can't possibly understand, with their platitudes and condolences … that's why I don't trust them."

Lisbon understood. She thought back to her mother and later her father.

Yes. She understood, but she didn't comment.

She was a little surprised by what Jane had said and the direction her question had led him to take. She hadn't intended to bring up bad memories at all, and in truth she was also surprised at the strength of conviction and emotion he had been able to display in his condition. But she also didn't think the lack of trust in doctors and the obvious resentment he had described was the only reason for the way he acted out and tried his best to avoid time in hospital … he was afraid or at the very least extremely uncomfortable … at least when he was unfortunate enough to be the patient.

What he had shown was pain and bitterness … not fear. There was more behind Jane's discomfort than he had told her today.

Lisbon had her eyes fixed on Jane's usually mesmerizing hands; the one with the drip lying still at his side and the other resting loosely in hers, and by the time she had mulled over her thoughts on his meandering justification and looked up to his face, he appeared to be asleep.

She called his name quietly, "Jane?", but he didn't stir.

She had been encouraged as they had started their conversation; he had certainly been more lucid than earlier, and didn't seem so restless, but now his face looked particularly flushed and damp. He looked drawn and underneath the flush his skin and lips looked grey. She felt his forehead. It was burning … seemed much hotter .. but that could be her imagination, she thought, surely if his fever was worse he would be more restless, even delirious, not quieter. She looked at the pattern of his breaths … shallow, short and jerky. It didn't seem to have changed, but then again, she wasn't sure, but the zigzag lines and glowing numbers on the machines beside him remained constant. All seemed to be under control.

So, she lowered the bed head a little, and angled the fan to blow softly across his chest and face, then kissed him affectionately on the forehead and with her mother's silver cross looped through her fingers, she sat back to watch over her lover and wait for the next nurse to come knocking on the door.

… if I had to travel down that road again, I' never make it back …

… that, and the fact that I love you …

That was what he had said.

And as she floated gently off to join him in the land of nod, those were the only words in her head.

Lisbon woke, after a bit, somewhat refreshed but hungry. She ate a cereal bar with a scuffed wrapper that she found moldering at the bottom of her bag. She diligently quashed any worrying thoughts that lingered from what Jane had said and concentrated on watching patiently as her partner slept fitfully for a couple more hours. They were interrupted only by another recording of his vital signs by a different nurse who made sympathetic clicking noises with her tongue, shook her head unconsciously as she scribbled figures on Jane's chart and was noncommittal when asked politely about his condition, saying only 'Doctor will be by in due course'. She managed by some miracle not to wake Jane, even when she manhandled him rather carelessly to take his blood pressure.

Lisbon grunted and muttered under her breath and let it pass.

What the hell is 'due course'?

Lisbon was thankful when, at last, 'due course' came at about six o'clock and the door opened to reveal Dr. Mac., who rushed in full of apologies and looking concerned.

"So sorry Miss. Lisbon, Mr. Jane. I had hoped to get back earlier," he excused himself. "Shooting downtown, I'm afraid. Dreadful mess."

Jane opened his eyes in stages and peered quizzically at the fuzzy mirage of a man he didn't remember. He decided he didn't actually care, since he could feel Lisbon still holding his hand, which meant that he was safe, so he allowed his heavy lids to block out the light again and tried to concentrate on listening.

The affable doctor picked up the chart and studied it with a furrowed brow, then laid his palm on Jane's forehead briefly and felt his racing pulse.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you Mr. Jane," he said, raising the bed to help his patient sit. "Would you mind leaning forward so I can listen to your chest? I know it's uncomfortable, but I prefer old school. Like to get a feel for my patient's condition."

Lisbon, in turn, studied the elegant physician with her own brow drawn into anxious lines, but a wry smile teasing her lips at his last statement. It sounded strangely familiar.

Jane had no option but to cooperate while he was being examined, so he did so in stoical silence without opening his eyes, then immediately slumped back onto his pillows. He felt so indescribably rotten that all he wanted to do was cry … but he just didn't have the energy. His head ached, he was thirsty, his chest was tight and painful and his limbs were heavy beyond belief. And worst of all he could no longer string together a single stream of coherent thought, couldn't come up with a single sarcastic insult to get a reaction from the friendly old fraud who stood there before him in his pristine white disguise, and whose next words were sure to be patronising or untrue.

Jane felt terrified of something, but too tired to truly feel the sensation of fear. Helpless, but too exhausted to ask for help. Trapped, but too weak to find a way out. His head spun with images of Lisbon smiling and Lisbon at gunpoint and thoughts of his life spiralling down the rabbit hole of loss and emptiness … of the past repeating itself.

Except he could still feel someone doggedly hanging onto his hand; like a terrier pulling him back, stopping him from sliding away.

When Dr. Mac had finished he sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to them both, although neither he nor Lisbon were sure if Jane was listening.

"Well," he began. "I have both good news and less good news."

Jane's hand flexed in Lisbon's, but she thought it was only coincidence.

"The tests show a bacterial infection, not viral or fungal, which is good, since we can treat that with antibiotics. As yet we haven't been able to identify the specific bacterium, so we can't be sure we have the optimum drug combination, which is a pity. Unfortunately the thermometer is showing a marginal increase, but its early days and the medication does take a while to kick in …still we always like to see an early response and hopefully not regression."

This time Lisbon gave Jane's rather limp fingers a firm squeeze.

"But you mustn't worry," the doctor continued, now addressing a concerned looking Lisbon. "I have my best people working to pin down that pesky bug, and I've decided I don't need x-rays to figure out what's going on in Mr. Jane's lungs. I've heard enough to know what we're dealing with and we can always get some pictures later if necessary; I don't see any point in causing any more distress now. It's more important to keep him comfortable and cool til we can get the infection under control."

None of this was what Lisbon wanted to hear. She had never known Jane to be ill and it seemed so unfair that someone who appeared so resilient should be laid so low by a common cold … she was beginning to feel guilty that the same germ had given her nothing but a tickly throat and a few sneezes that had all but vanished.

She looked Jane up and down. He was intrinsically a good man she was sure …whatever mistakes her conundrum of a consultant had made in the past he had paid for them in triplicate … he'd seen his fair share of misery and pain, didn't deserve this extra punishment. And the fact that, with all the guile and knowingness wiped off his face by unconsciousness, he so resembled an angel, made her doubly sad.

A sympathetic deep brown voice jogged her out of her miserable musing.

"Penny for them,"

"Oh, sorry" she said sadly, lifting her head to show her troubled face. "I was just wondering why he's become so ill. He's usually very healthy, always bounces back, you know. Not that he looks after himself, in fact he's a bit of a lazybones, but he's never really sick."

Dr. Mac peered at her. "Did it start with that sniffle you have?"

She smiled bashfully, unaware that she'd been sniffing or even sounding hoarse. "He gave it to me," she admitted. "Started with a sore throat and a slight fever a few days ago."

"There you are then," the doctor grinned. "Compromised immune system … even the fittest of us can get caught out by a marauding bug when our immune system's busy dealing with something trivial. It's unfair, but there it is. It's quite likely to be something he's picked up along the way that's been biding it's time, waiting for the right opportunity. He's been unlucky, that's all."

"Well luck sucks," was all she could think of to say. "Its about time he caught some good luck."

Dr. Mac laughed and agreed. "That it does, Miss Lisbon, that it does."

Jane groaned and yanked his hand out of Lisbon's loose grasp, waved it around in the air and let it drop back down with a thud, then lapsed into quiet slumber again.

The doctor looked between the sleeping man and his friend as she sat watching him. "You two are both FBI, aren't you?" He asked somewhat redundantly. "And something tells me very much more than merely colleagues. I imagine if you flash your badge around a bit the nursing staff will turn a blind eye to visiting hours. So I suggest you go get yourself a hot meal and relax for a bit while your Mr. Jane's asleep, then you can come and go as you please … but don't tell anybody I said so. There's a dragon woman roaming these wards who thinks she's in charge. She doesn't like me."

"But I can't …" she started to explain that, although she dearly wanted to stay by Jane's side and never leave, she was here in her capacity as his girlfriend and it didn't seem right to take advantage of the privileges her badge gave her.

cut off her protests with a smile and a wave of his arm.

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to give you every health care cliché ever bandied around like confetti now. You may wish to take me seriously or you may not, but I do mean what I say."

Lisbon let her gaze slip to her sleeping angel as she listened to 's advice. How she hoped and wished he could hear this kind doctor who did trot out the platitudes he so scorned, but was so obviously sincere and caring; not the fraudulent quack he had come to despise and distrust.

"He's going to be fine. You have my word," the doctor assured her. "It's a matter of patience and careful nursing. You know as well as I do you'll be no good to him if you're as beat as he is. He needs his sleep and while he's sleeping he won't even know you're here, so there's nothing much you can do but sit and watch. I suggest you advantage of that and your status. Go home, get a good night's sleep and come back and flash that badge first thing in the morning or earlier. Middle of the night, if you like, I'm sure you and he have earned it."

And so, that was exactly what Agent Lisbon did as soon as the good doctor had said his goodbyes.

She was extraordinarily weary; it had been a long, complicated and stressful day, she had a splitting headache, which she'd been denying for hours, hadn't had a proper meal …apart from the melon pieces Jane hadn't been able to eat and a past it's sell by date, sugar loaded cereal bar … and was sticky and she assumed smelly.

She straightened Jane's covers, adjusted the fan that had been moved aside during 's examination so that it's cool breeze was wafting in just the right direction, then stroked his damp hair back and left a lingering kiss on his forehead.

The tears were seeping between her blinking lashes as she whispered quietly.

"I'll see you in a little while, my darling. Sleep tight."

The main entrance was virtually deserted at four thirty in the morning, but her badge worked it's magic on the unquestioning receptionist who directed her to Jane's ward when Lisbon returned, comparatively bright eyed and bushy tailed. Although she'd never considered it before, with the prevalence of violent crime in any city these days, she supposed law enforcement personnel were frequent visitors at irregular hours of the day or night, so she was treated with almost complete indifference by the staff who went quietly about their business in the middle of the night.

Sleep had not come easily, but she had to admit, Dr' Mac had indeed given sound advice. A wickedly unhealthy but comforting burger and fries from a popular takeout chain, of which Jane would no doubt disapprove, accompanied by two cups of decent coffee and followed by a long hot shower, had been absolutely what she needed; the perfect salves to her frazzled mind and worn body. The only thing missing, apart, obviously, from the real thing, was a direct feed cctv to Jane's room so she could keep watch over him remotely.

Later, she'd checked in with Cho, who'd texted earlier with the typically concise 'update?', and made a call to the office to see if there were any messages or instructions left for her with whoever was man enough or lonely enough to still be there late into the evening. In the past, she thought, it would have been her.

That done, Lisbon found she had two choices; she could either sit in front of something distracting on the TV while she worried about Jane, or she could go to bed and try to catch some sleep while she worried about Jane. Common sense dictated that the latter option had to be the more sensible, if potentially more difficult, so that was what she tried to do. And after seemingly interminable hours of concerted effort, she eventually managed a couple of hours of surprisingly solid sleep, induced by exhaustion, and aided by a small shot of tequila that Patrick had bought her as a memento of the old CBI custom.

Not unexpectedly, she had woken at three, in the throes of a violent dream about a struggling Jane. He was alone in a pitch black void, not standing, or sitting, or lying on his couch, or lying on anything for that matter … just there, in the cold, surrounded in endless black nothingness; all wild, stormy, staring eyes and thrashing limbs and shining yellow hair. He was trying to scream out for help, but no sound came from his gaping mouth, so no one was listening, and no one heard … not even her.

She found herself yelling his name as she woke.

And she failed to get back to sleep.

So a four a.m. return it would be … four thirty by the time she was back at his side.

When she entered his room, it was to the sight of the warm and efficient Nurse Sylvia Sanderson sitting at Jane's side with a bowl of cold water and a damp cloth, which she was poised to place on his brow. Jane appeared to be asleep or very relaxed. Lisbon was disappointed, not to say worried, to see that he was wearing the same oxygen mask that he wore on the occasion of her first visit, covering his nose and mouth, and the was an additional piece of equipment sharing the trolley with the whirring fan that was endeavouring to keep him cool.

As Lisbon deposited her bag on the floor beside her and slipped without a sound into the brown upholstered chair, Sylvia looked up with the confident smile of a comrade in arms and greeted her before she could speak.

"Hi, you're bright and early," she said, turning the damp cloth over and replacing it carefully. "Don't worry, he's fine. He's having a broken night, and he's been very active, whether he's asleep or not."

Lisbon was surprised to see Sylvia. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you'd gone home when that other nurse came this afternoon. Not that I'm complaining, of course … it's a relief to see you … she was … well, let's say, Jane would have rebelled if he'd been in any condition to."

Sylvia kept her reaction to a restrained giggle, "I'm sure he would … will, when he feels better."

Then she explained her presence, "Oh, I work the cover shift. It's a new initiative. I'm here most of the time, but available to cover elsewhere. Because most of the work up here is routine based, its easier for us to take up the slack here if there's a rush in emergencies, like that RTA this afternoon, for example. Works well, but I didn't get back up here til after midnight. I was supposed to go off duty at three thirty, but I thought I'd stay for a bit and try to help Mr. Jane settle … he was making himself too hot and getting distressed, so I didn't want to leave him."

Lisbon's eyes flicked to the suspicious looking piece of machinery beside the fan, then back to her fidgety consultant. He didn't seem to be aware that she was there, even though it wasn't clear that he was fully asleep. It worried her. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to shake him awake so that he'd have an excuse to lash out at her with some annoying little jibe.

"What's that?" she asked, gesturing with a nod to the interloper on the fan trolley. "I mean he is okay, isn't he?"

Sylvia smiled again, but not too confidently. "That's a nebuliser. He got very fretful in between obs and dislodged his cannula. By the time the nurse did her rounds he was getting very breathless and panicky, so we've given him a couple of sessions on the machine. It's quite a routine treatment. It delivers drugs into the lungs more efficiently. He responded well, but we'll keep the mask on him now when he's alone to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Lisbon was at once, both disturbed and relieved. As she took in everything that had changed in her eight hour absence, she wasn't at all sure which of her concerns and questions should take precedence, but one thing she was sure of was that she should never have left his side. The other thing she knew was that this kindhearted nurse was not to blame.

"You must be tired," Lisbon observed, although her attention never strayed from Jane, who was slowly trying to turn onto his side but getting into a mess with the tubes and wires he was attached to.

Sylvia automatically removed the oxygen mask and held the drip tubing aside and calmly repositioned them when he finally stopped moving.

"Oh no, I'm fine," she said, making her self comfortable again, "Its no trouble, really. I've only been sitting here holding his hand; it seems to reassure him."

That familiar hand with its wide palm and elegant fingers now rested in her own, quite relaxed, warm and solid and it was Lisbon who now felt reassured. So many times the merest brush of their fingers had been all they had, but all they needed. That and the fleeting moments when their eyes met in unspoken understanding, had carried them through the years when they could have no more.

She had realized in the past few weeks and days that things were very different now, but those moments no less important, and what's more, she would not allow his hand to slip from her grip again without good reason.

But she was grateful that a woman like Sylvia had been there as her surrogate tonight.

"I'm very grateful Sylvia," she said, "You have no idea. But you should go home, it's late. He's not going to be alone again. Ever. I'm not leaving."

In spite of Lisbon's urging, the nurse decided she would sit with them until the early morning shift change brought a different team of nursing staff, and renewed confidence for a still disgruntled Lisbon. She found it hard to believe that a patient could be neglected when he was so poorly, and even though Sylvia had explained that, as monitors would have kicked into action and buzzed loudly for attention had there been any danger, she was not so reassured.

It did indeed seem that Jane had had a bad night, but he was comparatively quiet now, exhausted and settled somewhere on the cusp of sleep and unconsciousness, so it wasn't an imposition to have a third person in the room. Lisbon was glad of the company, since her jester's entertainment skills were once again on hold.

Sylvia went for coffee, then they settled down to wait.

"He's a real chatterbox in his sleep, your Mr. Jane," Sylvia disclosed, trying to make light of the fact that his delirium had been almost as distressing for her as it had been for him.

Lisbon laughed, although, even after coffee, her best effort couldn't conceal her residual anger. "Yeah, he certainly likes the sound of his own voice. What did he have to say?"

"Mostly he was calling for you, over and over and over … kept calling you to come back, not go in … 'don't go in, don't go in there' he kept saying … and Charlotte … his daughter, right? … he's still bothered about that party dress …"

What Sylvia remembered of Jane's muddled ramblings spilled out as they resurfaced, until she hesitated, feeling awkward and unsure if it was wise to carry on, unsure if she might reveal a secret or touch on something too painful.

It was true that it did bother Lisbon that this woman they hardly knew had been privy to his subconscious thoughts. It wasn't so much that she had, more because since they'd been together Jane had generally slept so well and so peacefully, that she had rarely been witness to the expression of the painful things that were obviously still buried deep, or sometimes not so deep, inside him.

It was one of the things that satisfied her about their newfound closeness, that, at least as far as anyone could tell, and only Jane really knew, being with her had hopefully brought him within touching distance of the peace he sought. She wasn't fool enough to think that avenging his family's deaths had done the trick. Nor his two year exile. They had only been building blocks. The final act and the breathing space after. And certainly not the first few strange months at the FBI, when they had been so disconnected and she had conned herself into believing she could fall for another man. Those months must have felt for him like someone was trying to kick the building blocks out from under his feet. Even though, they were equally to blame.

Since her betrayal … and, yes, she now saw it as betrayal … with Marcus had pushed Jane kicking and screaming into that tearful admission that he had finally found the key to unlock his feelings, there had been so many more days when his face glowed with genuine contentment and the joy of being alive.

Things had been going so well, she thought; until this stupid cold turned monster had slapped her in the face.

Abbott's comments had made her think, had wrenched the rose tinted glasses from her eyes. And Jane's fever had started to free him of his inhibitions, had loosened his tongue without his bidding … she had partial insight now, into his antipathy for doctors, if not his fear. It was a start that she hoped could continue when he was well. She hoped and prayed it would be a blessing for both of them … after all talking was good, wasn't it? Communication skills … it was something they had talked about jokingly and never actually done very well verbally. When things became uncomfortable, one of them would shut down … and usually these days, it was her.

She needed to know what else his liberated subconscious had revealed to Sylvia. Whether it be good or not so good. It was an odd thing, to be asking her about the innermost thoughts of the man she knew better than anyone since his wife, almost like he'd been cheating, but somehow it felt okay; like she owed it to them both … surely knowing his truths could only bring them closer … if it didn't tear them apart.

"Can you remember anything else he said?"

"It was mostly random words and struggling to get out of somewhere … he feels to trapped … 'don't lock me up' … and he kept swinging his arm about, like he was trying to draw big circles in the air. Did that for ages … begging to be let go … but he started sobbing after, and trying to find someone called Angie … kept saying sorry, over and over again, 'I'm sorry, Angie, I'm sorry', over and over and over."

Teresa fought back tears. It hurt to hear him cry for Angela, but she understood. She could never deny him his past, she could only hope one day he would be able to share it with her, so that she could shoulder some of the pain.

But there was something else she wanted to know, something she hoped for so much.

"Was he upset about Charlotte?"

Sylvia looked up and smiled wistfully, "No," she remembered the look on Jane's face as relived the trials and tribulations of being a doting father. "He wasn't upset, just very sad, but calm and he sometimes smiled in his sleep like he could see her and his hands moved like he could touch her. i think he was tried to straighten her dress. He just wanted everything to be perfect for her. He wanted to make her happy … 'enjoy the party' he said 'you look beautiful … like a fairy princess'."

Again Lisbon fought back the tears, and she couldn't look at Jane, who lay oblivious, rolling his head occasionally and snoring lightly.

Neither could she look at the empathetic nurse, staring down at her hands and fighting against her own tears.

They sat silently until Lisbon reached for her bag and found a couple of tissues. She handed one to Sylvia with a quietly spoken, "Thank you," and a small embarrassed smile.

When the two women were interrupted a few minutes later, at six a.m., by a brisk but firm rapping on the door that heralded the arrival of Dr. Mac, it was a great relief to both of them.

He bounded in, looking like a larger, older version of Jane on one of his most sunshiny days. He was sans white coat and wearing a very smart charcoal three-piece suit, complete with paisley bow tie and brown suede brogues.

The imposing tower of optimism and cheer was met by one small dark and thunder filled cloud, in the form of Patrick Jane's minder, and by a very tired and disappointed nurse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Welcome back.**

 **I'm so sorry to have let my writing drift and it would take far to long to list all my excuses, so I won't. But I'm back now.**

 **The first four chapters have been slightly revised, mostly to iron out as many of the mistakes and clunky bits I could find, as well as to get myself back into the story. I would suggest a quick read through before embarking on the chapter, but I know that's a big ask.**

 **Anyway I hope you will enjoy this new installment.**

* * *

Lisbon was pleased that Jane had, eventually, been discharged; still weak and on all sorts of medication, but out of danger and well enough to convalesce 'quietly' at home. Although, naturally, it had gone exactly as she'd anticipated, she couldn't say the event had been much fun.

He hadn't made it easy on himself or anybody else; whining, teasing and fussing about all aspects of the medical profession until he'd worn himself out so much they'd almost considered keeping him captive for an extra day. But he'd felt obliged to make as much fuss as he could; it helped his nerves to see the the way his antics made Teresa's face contort, her stance widen, her body stiffen to bristling rigidity and her voice take on that strangled tone he so loved.

He was sure she felt more at home too, when he behaved that way. Could feel it in her glare, which was after all her way of showing her relief.

And when she glared it made him smile.

After too many long sleepless nights at his bedside, she'd come home to spend the previous night in her own bed, knowing she needed to sleep if she was to be back on the office the day after he came home. She was dog tired, yet the night when she most needed sleep was spent mostly wakeful, nervous in anticipation of his homecoming, and now she was almost as tired as he was and more than a little deflated.

But by the time she'd bullied him into staying at her place, rather than his Airstream (she'd rightly insisted it wasn't the healthiest place to be, in what her new friend Sylvia decribed as 'his still delicate condition' ) he was so exhausted he'd gone to bed and slept straight through the remainer of the afternoon and most of the night, which was something she found she was conflicted about, but had to accept. She knew it was what he needed. Of course she did.

When they'd come home and he'd crawled apologetically under the covers, she had intended to spend some time catching up on case files Cho had dropped round at her request. But her heart hadn't been in it, and she'd spent half of her time imagining the two of them sitting together on her couch, safe and relaxed after a week she hoped never to have to repeat.

In the end she had pottered around, doing things that didn't need doing, with one ear always carefully tuned to the occasional snuffling, snoring and coughing that drifted down the stairs from the deliberately half open bedroom door.

Eventually she relented and joined him, way before her usual bedtime and slept better than she had in days.

* * *

It had to be said that Thursday (the next day) was one of the most unexpectedly stressful days of her life.

It was Jane's first full day home alone since his release and she found that, for most of the day, her belly was a mass of tightly wound knots and her head buzzed with all the trivial rules she'd meant to insist he adhere to for his own good and for her peace of mind.

He'd sat on her couch that morning, with a cup of tea and a serene calmness about him and he'd nodded vigorously to confirm that he would comply to each of the instructions she'd remembered from the list her secret mothering complex had spent all of the previous afternoon compiling.

He'd laughed at the spectacle of her standing, jacket on, bag in hand, at the wide open doorway, lecturing him in her stockinged feet, and he'd told her to put on her shoes before she left and not to forget her weapon.

He'd beamed, eyes never leaving her, as she hurriedly retrieved the errant footwear and struggled into it wearing her sexiest scowl.

"I'm a big boy, Teresa," she remembered hearing him saying blithly to the door when it slammed shut behind her, " I'll be fine. Have a nice day."

And she knew he'd loved every moment of her obvious apprehension.

* * *

The image of her handsome, smiling man child, sitting quietly and alone, still parchment pale and much too thin and looking tired although it was only ten minutes to nine, stayed with her until the flashing lights at the day's first crime scene muscled in with their garish reminder of death and violence.

The crime had been routine, if carnage could ever fit that bill, and the rest of the day uneventful.

So she had time on her hands, the last thing she needed.

It meant resisting the urge to check up on her convalescing partner had been virtually impossible. But still, she'd managed to restrain herself to three texts, which Jane had the sense to answer promptly and with all the right reassurances, and one call at lunchtime, when he told her he was 'busy' watching TV before taking another nap.

It was only natural that his far too sensible responses had increased her fears rather than allaying them, so by the end of the day she was fully expecting to walk in to find him unwell again or indulging in something foolhardy.

How wrong could a person be.

* * *

All was silent when she swung open the door at a few minutes before seven and dropped her keys and bag on the side table.

There was no sign nor sound of Jane, just a vase of rose pink peonies sitting in the middle of the coffee table, with a single sheet of expensive writing paper, bearing Jane's flowery but somehow unpretentious handwriting, pinned underneath it's edge.

She tugged out the note and read with trepidation.

 _Dear Teresa,_

 _Please drop that worried frown or turn it upside down._

 _I'm safely tucked up in bed._

 _Do you know how boring it can be watching daytime TV?_

 _No, I don't suppose you've ever had to suffer that sort of torture, woman of action and discipline that you are._

 _Normally the solution would have been found between the pages of a good book, but unfortunately my brain wasn't up to reading. Its still a little bit fogged up, though thankfully, not too fusty to find the answer to terminal tedium._

 _In short, I went for a little walk, to blow away the cobwebs._

 _"Idiot!" I hear you say._

 _Well, never fear my dear. Unclench those grinding teeth._

 _I checked no rain was forecast, took my medication, and ate a sandwich before venturing out._

 _Only one drawback which I hadn't foreseen; it would appear my stamina isn't all it could be, which is why you'll have to eat alone again tonight._

 _Sorry,_

 _See you in the morning,_

 _Your eternally grateful,_

 _Very sleepy,_

 _And ever loving,_

 _Patrick._

After she'd she unzipped, then kicked off her boots and pushed them, one by one, untidilly under the side table, Lisbon let her fingers run over Jane's letter, feeling the ghostly indentations left behind by his lovingly handwritten message. She folded the paper in two, and then in four and slipped it into the box on the top shelf of the bookcase; another piece of Jane to be preserved and cherished.

She went into the kitchen and sure enough there was a plate with the crusts of a half eaten sandwich and a tea mug, sitting half full of water in the sink. She turned off the tap he'd left dripping into the cup, tossed his leftovers into the bin, put his mug in the dishwasher and poured a fresh glass of water to take to him, then crept stealthily upstairs and into the bedroom that used to be hers and, increasingly often, now was theirs.

He was perfectly still and seemed to be in the arms of a deep and tranquil sleep, curled on one side with knees slightly drawn up and one hand hidden deep between the two goose down pillows. The other hand lay loose beside him, on top of the covers. She ran a finger gently over the greenish bruising that marred the skin where the drip needle had been, then looked at his face and smiled.

What she saw was everything she needed to see. A picture of calm and peace. Okay, his complexion was still pasty underneath it's usual golden tan, but now tinted with the blush of fresh air and sun that was so subtly different from the lurid flush of fever.

Teresa Lisbon fell in love all over again.

How could she not.

The hours she'd spent sitting lonely at his side had again given her time to think, time that she usually didn't have. Some would say having too much time to brood can be dangerous, but it had shown her many things; not least how much she would miss not only the sound of his voice and the sight of the real Jane smile if he wasn't there, but also how much she would miss everything about him that drove her mad.

She'd miss his condescending backhanded compliments. She'd crave his patronising put downs and his arrogant pontifications on irrelevant subjects at inappropriate times.

Hell, she'd even miss his propensity for poking bigwigs.

She had come to the conclusion that, among other more conventionally important things ( like simply how much she loved him), these were things that he deserved to hear; he had to know that she would miss the yin that contrasted his yang.

She had realised in those long hours spent at the bedside of a man who wasn't even really there, how empty her life might be without him.

Now she couldn't wait to tell him again, that she loved him, warts and all.

It had been her intention have a chat, (about their unfinished talk, what she'd learnt about him, even what she'd learned about herself) over dinner that night, given the assumption that his day would have been spent mostly sleeping, but as usual Jane had had the last word - or rather he had written the last word.

Their heart to heart would have to wait until tomorrow.

So she placed the water on the nightstand, and stood for a moment doing nothing except being thankful and resisting the urge to touch his skin again, then she finally left him to sleep.

* * *

Alone again in the sitting room, safe in the knowledge that Jane was fine and only a staircase and half a dozen paces away if he needed her, the rest of the evening dragged like a heavy weight pulling down on every part of her. Even after eating it was only a few minutes after eight and she was lonely.

She felt listless, adrift in the cold waters of a sea of boredom, while the centre of her whole world was warm and alive and cocooned safely in bed, only a ceiling and some floorboards above her head.

No self respecting grown up hit the sack (except to have sex) before the sun went down, but it was all she wanted to do.

The tantalizing thought of Jane's smooth, warm body snuggled in her bed called to her, telling her it wasn't wrong to need to simply feel every inch of his skin touching hers, to lay together with limbs deliciously tangled.

It wasn't wrong to imagine their hot breaths mingling, dreams being subconsciously shared and connections strengthened, never to be prised apart.

And it didn't matter if he lay fast asleep and she lay wide awake, and if it were two in the morning or two in the afternoon or at a few minutes before eight on a workday evening.

It didn't matter as long as they were together.

So, for the second night, far earlier than she normally would, Teresa Lisbon carefully smuggled her nightclothes from their place under the pillow next to Patrick Jane's head, had a quick shower, dried her hair quickly, downstairs, so's not to make too much noise and rushed back to slip under the covers to spoon him.

If Jane registered that she was there he didn't acknowledge it.

He only moved a little in response to the sensation of her hand as it slid around his waist, then he sighed and she could see the corners of his mouth curl up a fraction in the half light of the artificially darkened room.

But the night didn't go as well as his first night home, when he had been worn out by the excitement of his release from the dreaded hospital.

Lisbon woke several times to find Jane wrapped in her moss green blanket, sitting in the chair on the other side of the room, coughing as quietly as he could, and sipping a glass of water til the attack subsided. Each time he assured her he was fine, that it would happen until his chest was completely clear, but he felt okay. And each time he soon returned to bed and lay facing away from her so she could rub his back with her warm comforting hands.

* * *

When she woke to the sound of her alarm at eight - she'd arranged to go in late again - Jane was already sitting in the same chair watching her with a sunny smile, through the rising steam of a fresh cup of tea.

"I thought I'd go to the park again today, as part of my recuperation," he announced before she'd even had time to wipe the sleep away from her eyes. "You can meet me for a picnic lunch if you like."

"Um, no," she told him as she flung back the covers and grabbed her regular bedtime jersey from where it lay on the floor - she'd discarded it almost as soon as she'd got into bed and found he was naked except for his boxers. She pulled the top on quickly, dragging it roughly down over her thighs and blushing a bit. It made her feel weird when he sat there resplendent in his respectable, oh so buttoned up, powder blue pyjamas and she was half naked.

"When did you put those on?" she demanded.

Jane grinned in return. "Uh, while you were sleeping. Didn't have the energy to search for them yesterday afternoon."

He blew out a huge puff of air, "Boy was I pooped," then shivered dramatically.

"My, don't you keep your heating on low," he said.

"It's not on," she informed him grumpily, "Why don't you get dressed?"

Lisbon strolled over, let his still glowing smile soften her morning mood, and, dropping her 'grump', gave him a fond, teasing peck on the lips.

She felt his mouth respond, wide and warm and inviting against hers. And somehow managed to resist. Mostly because she was still debating whether she should try to disuade him from venturing out again and couldn't afford to be distracted.

"I'm going to get coffee," she announced instead and skipped down stairs.

Jane picked up his blanket, draped it artfully around himself and followed meekly.

"I still don't think you should go out today," she told him over breakfast at the kitchen table, "You had a terrible night. You should stay in and rest."

Jane sat up straight, drained his cup and gave her a determined, but cherubic look. "I'm going," he said brightly. "Dr. Mac Quack said I should get a little fresh air and gentle exersise. I'll be fine."

He assessed her reaction, which started stubborn but appeared to be warming to tentative pragmatism.

Then he gave her that stern, but rebelious look. "The bench by the lake, Lisbon. Twelve o'clock. I'll bring the refreshments."

Lisbon thought for a moment. Melted a little in the face of _that_ look. She was beaten, she decided, but happily so.

Well, maybe not exactly happily.

 _You win._

But on reflection, since she wouldn't be there to stop him leaving the house it, seemed wise to co-operate and keep him happy in the hope that it would encourage him to be sensible.

 _And_ she would be there with him in the park this time.

 _I win._

"Okay. You win," she agreed and started to gather the breakfast dishes together with her back to him, thus carefully avoiding the triumphant twinkle she knew would be in his eyes. "But we're not eating those god awful white bread sandwiches you make."

Jane cleared his throat, part out of necessity, but mostly to catch her attention. He handed her his cup when she turned, making sure their fingertips brushed accidentally and he smiled sweetly when their eyes inevitably met.

He saw undisguisable reticence in her gaze, though it tried to hide behind the becoming blush his touch brought to her cheeks, but it made him appreciate her protectiveness and the sacrifice of her compliance all the more.

He resolved to do everything he could to reward her.

"Thank you Lisbon," he said in his best serious, but not solemn tone. "It's a deal then. You bring healthy comestibles of your choice, I'll supply beverages."

Mission accomplished, he thought with a sly smile and went to settle happily in her comfy lounger to watch her readying herself for work.

 _We both win ... and I love you, my beautiful protectress._

"And bring your coat. Even if you don't wear it," were the last words Jane heard fifteen minutes later as he moved to the sitting room and settled onto the couch for a nap with the sound of a slamming door ringing in his ears.

He caught an hour of decent sleep before steeling himself to prepare for his eagerly anticipated lunch date with a beautiful brunette of his aquaintence.

* * *

At three minutes past twelve the sun was high in the sky and the park was busy with lunching office workers, truanting teens roaming in small groups, and young mums and lucky couples amusing their toddlers and pushing babies in prams and strollers.

It was warm, but a skittish breeze lifted the few bronzed leaves that had dropped from the trees as autumn approached. It blew them in drifts across the winding gravel path and settled them against the grassy edge in a thin band of umber and garnet. Lisbon was glad she had reminded Jane to take his coat; as the afternoon sun swung round it would hide behind the big trees that sheltered the lake and the wind would begin to bite.

The lake glittered with miniature waves whipped up by the breeze and highlighted with warm silver by the sun. It drew her eyes across the small expanse of water to the half dozen rustic benches and picnic tables placed randomly near the lakeside and under an arbour of weeping willows and rustling poplars.

He was easy to spot, on a bench tucked under a big willow, whose branches drooped elegantly down in a gauzy green curtain, to almost touch the ground.

It was obvious Jane hadn't bothered to employ that horribly expensive product he used to tame his hair; it blew in carefree messy curls, burnished soft yellow gold and hazy like a halo, by the strong sunshine. It beckoned her, like a beacon, shining through the swaying branches.

His faithful navy peacoat, the only outerwear he owned, lay folded neatly beside him on the backrest of the seat, and a small takeout bag sat at his side.

The bench was placed sideways on, facing the lake, and the direction of the path led her toward him from an angle that meant their eyes would not meet til she was close, but she could catch a glimpse of his face as she drew near. He was looking pensive, staring out beyond the water, deep in thought, so engrossed that he jumped as she sat down to join him.

He looked up, mildly surprised, but at the sight of her, his face melted and warmed into a jubilant but strange smile.

"Well hello, Lisbon. Fancy meeting you here," he said with a rather forced chuckle.

"You okay? You seemed preoccupied," she asked immediately, picking up the takeout bag next to him so that she could shuffle closer. "What you thinking about?"

"Me? Preoccupied?"

The smile fell from his washed out face and it resumed it's more thoughtful expression.

"Oh," he explained, "I was just watching the children play and wondering if anyone thought I was being creepy - you know, middle aged man alone in a park surrounded by innocent little boys and girls."

She stared at him in dismay, "Well, that's about the stupidest thing you've ever said. "Why would you think that?"

He turned and his eyes bored straight into hers with a sincerity as real as she'd ever seen from him.

"I looked in the mirror when I was getting ready to come out Lisbon," he told her, but that was all he said and his face told it was all he would say.

Lisbon reached across, took the bag she'd brought and opened it wide under his chin.

He looked inside and sniffed very deliberately.

She thought she could see his melancholic veneer begin to thin, it wavered but he didn't seem able to let it crack.

"Oh, come on Jane, don't be silly. Cheer up," she encouraged, shaking the brown paper bag close to his nose. "I brought you sandwiches."

He ignored the offer of food, but suddenly grabbed her hand and looked up at her with dampening eyes. "I'm glad you're here," he blurted, "I mean - I'm glad I've got you."

The bag rustled with her impatience and as a result of her attempt to disguise a frisson of embarrassment.

Then again perhaps it was the effort of trying to control the rush of love that suddenly urged her to ravish the unfathomable consultant in a public park - or at the very least to hug the depression out of him.

"Sandwiches Jane," she said sharply instead. "I'm starving."

Jane blinked and dipped his head into the open bag again to confirm his suspicions. He raised it to display a watery but wide smile.

"Lisbon. You brought me ham and cheese,"

He suddenly beamed fully, all trace of temporary glumness gone and his voice now filled with more childlike glee than she'd heard for a while. "And caramel donuts."

For a few special moments his eyes sparkled and she rejoiced. It was one of the things that she loved about him; that mercurial ability to change, to throw off his bouts of sadness with such determination.

But it worried her more than almost anything else. She never could tell if the turnabout was real.

He had spent so long living like that, constantly trying to convince everone that everything was fine, she wondered if he would ever be able to fully adjust to not having to. If, please God, the day ever came, would he be able to live a life where one day followed the other with no great dramas, emotional or physical, to battle with.

Could he ever throw off the shackles of his past enough to simply relax into the comparative ordinariness of the present.

"Don't thank me yet Jane," she warned, but before she could take her next breath he grabbed the bag out of her grasp, replaced it with the one that contained their drinks and had already taken a bite.

"I know, I know ... they're brown, not white and you only brought donuts because you think I need fattening up."

* * *

The brief time they spent together that sunny fall afternoon seemed like it could last forever, and she wished it could, but yet it flew by all too quickly. They sat and sipped on their favourite drinks; him tea, no milk this time and no sugar as always; her good strong coffee. Jane, despite his poor appetite, manfully struggled to enjoy his sandwich, but soon gave up. Instead he watched Lisbon eat while she listened to the reassuringly steady rhythm of his breathing and wondered if she could persuade him to try a donut.

Jane was quiet and still thoughtful and just sat gazing pensively across the lake until she finished eating.

"Would you mind if we saved them for this evening?" he asked unbidden, and at her smile of unspoken understanding, proceeded to give her a lecture on the various ducks and geese that dabbled and dived in and on the lake and among the bullrushes at it's marshy edges.

"See that one over there," he gestured with an elegantly enthusiastic arm wave, "The one with the iridescent bluegreen plumage - that's your Dr. McQuack. See how full of himself he is, swimming around all on his own, not a care in the world, with his flamboyant clothes and confident air."

"I told you not to call him that Jane," she admonished goodnaturedly. "He's a good man - and his name's MacIntosh."

Jane slipped her a characteristically exasperated smile accompanied by a little shrug and a sigh. "Yeah, I know - but you really must learn not to take me so literally if we're going to get along."

She smacked him gently on the knee. "And _you_ should learn to behave yourself."

"Ow," he moaned, with a dramatic grimace, because it was expected. "You'd hate it," he told her, "You need familiarity. Me behaving would make you nervous."

He paused for a beat, searching her face carefully, "Incidentally, I was wondering, flamboyance smacks of over-compensating for insecurities, don't you think - maybe he should tone it down a bit."

She smiled indulgently and he smiled back.

"I think you talk bullshit for effect sometimes," she retorted, "Do you think that's over compensating for something?"

His face registered instant and indignant surprise for a nanosecond, because that too was expected, before it fractured into a brilliant grin.

"Touche, Lisbon. Touche."

She felt the warm glow of her satisfaction envelop them both and leaned happily against his shoulder.

He let his expression soften to the contentment brought on by the familiarity and security of her closeness.

As they continued to watch, the proud drake, with his fancy peacock colours, swam smoothly over to circle around a dull brown female and the small brood of fluffy duckings that trailed obediently in her wake. He circled twice then glided away to station himself a few feet to the side of them.

Jane turned to her with suddenly rekindled interest. He poked a slender finger toward the little family.

"Look Lisbon." He made himself cough a little in his excitement. " Look there. That dull brown one, that's his wife, the lucky girl."

Lisbon frowned, half way between insulted and amused, but declined to comment.

Of course, she knew he didn't mean his observation as a slight to conservatively dressed women or dull lady ducks.

In fact Jane's boyish enthusiasm for nature and the simple things in life had always been something that bolstered her attraction to him. She supposed he found it reassuring, thought maybe it kept him connected to a reality reassuringly different from the harder aspects of his life. Maybe the circle of life, as played out in the animal world, a reflection of the human world, raw in tooth and claw, but mostly free from deceit and mindless evil, gave him something positive to believe in, much as her faith did for her.

They both watched, captivated by a disobedient duckling that kept lagging behind the convoy, drifting out of line to investigate a floating bit of weed or an insect hovering nearby.

Jane was entranced.

Lisbon studied his face as it reacted to the mini drama of the mother's multiple attempts to bring her errant son (a boy duck even though her know-it-all partner would deny it) into line.

The little family of mallards had almost paddled out of view and away from their aloof and haughty father. They swam under the shelter of some overhanging branches that dangled into the lake about four feet from the edge, but Jane was transfixed by the silvery ripples that patterned the water as they swam away. He focused on the water long after the were gone.

She was just about to ask him if he was warm enough when he suddenly turned toward her, drew in a stuttering sigh and said something she never thought to hear him say.

For a moment, it made her catch her breath a little.

"They sort of remind me of me and you," he told her in that pensive, 'talking through my musings' voice he often adopted.

Then he caught sight of her slightly startled look and strengthened his tone. "Our little family back at the CBI, I mean," he confirmed brightly. "There's you - " He nodded to the mother duck as she reappeared, swimming out into the sunshine beyond the trees. " In your conservative clothing, all serious and responsible, marshaling your little family of agents. And I'm the pretty guy over there with my multi coloured aura and my lively personality, off doing my own thing as usual."

He gave her a dazzling, but slightly self deprecating smile.

"Uh ... you always wear shades of grey Jane."

"Good point Lisbon, bet you had me pegged as that naughty little straggler, eh?"

"Well, yeah actually."

"No," he asserted, "I'm definitely the flashy guy."

The smile turned down a notch.

"So you see me as shades of grey Lisbon? I'm disappointed. But it's you own fault you know. You're the one who's trying to drag me out of my island shirts. I've been trying to let the new, rejuvinated me shine through, although I'm not quite sure ... "

"Like you said Jane, I like familiarity. I always liked you in vests."

He took a little time to ponder.

"That's interesting - that _you_ still feel comforted by the old Jane and _I'm_ so nostalgic for the old days at the CBI. Considering what we both went through back then, one might think we would be only to happy to forget those days."

"It was a lot of years Jane. And a lot of experiences that we went through together. Bad _and_ good."

Jane didn't reply to her comment at once and when she turned to observe his reaction his eyes were almost closed and his expression relaxed.

"I guess familiarity breeds contempt eventually Lisbon," he mumbled sleepily. "That, or maybe you fall in love."

"I guess," she agreed, and although she wasn't entirely sure she understood the first part of his cryptic message, it left her feeling a pang of guilt that she still hadn't actually told him she loved him. Still hadn't spoken the words.

Then, when she looked at him again she wasn't even so certain _he_ understood what he was talking about. He looked exhausted. He was rambling. And his eyelids were definitely fluttering.

"Jane"

He raised his eyebrows, licked his lips and finally let his eyes shut.

So Lisbon decided to act.

She gathered up their bits and pieces, and rose.

"I have to get back to the office Jane."

No response.

So she bent down in front of him and put a hand on each shoulder.

His eyes flickered open, blinked and focused slowly.

"Jane, we're going now. I don't think you should stay out here any longer. You look tired."

She didn't have the heart to tell him he had actually fallen asleep. "I have my car at the park entrance, I know it's only a few hundred yards but I'll drive you home, then you can get some rest before I get back."

Jane didn't protest. He merely smiled and held out a hand that made it clear he'd appreciate a boost to get him off the bench.

They stopped for a short rest half way to the gates, at the only other available benches, which happened to be near the main children's playground; Jane hadn't complained, but his cough was starting to bother him and he was walking more and more slowly.

He sat in silence, only confirming he was "okay - just tired" when she asked if he was alright.

It was obvious he no longer felt like talking, so she just sat beside him and held his hand, waiting while he stared aimlessly at the darting, spinning and swaying blurs of colour that were children running and playing on the swings and roundabouts.

She wondered what, if anything, he was thinking about.

After a scant five minutes Lisbon let Jane take the lead when he exhaled loudly and got up to leave.

She carried his coat over her arm and their half eaten picnic in one hand. He gallantly offered her his arm with a washed out but very soppy smile and a half hearted flourish, and she slipped her free hand round his elbow like it was always meant to be there.

And they strolled hand in hand to the car without another word.

* * *

 **Thanks so much for reading.**

 **I'll be away for a couple of weeks now and I'm a slow writer, but will endeavour to get something up in about a month, all being well.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Bet you had all given up on this one, or forgotten, but here it is ... another chapter of rambling Jane and Lisbon.**

 **Thanks very much in advance for reading, if you enjoy it just a tiny bit I'll be very happy. For me it's turned out to be a labour of love that may well go on and on. I hope some of that comes over.**

* * *

That evening Lisbon arrived home a little later than she'd hoped, but carrying hearty offerings from the local Italian restaurant. When she'd explained to the genial owner, Claudio, that Jane had been ill and wasn't really up to eating out, he'd raced into the kitchen, returning barely seconds later exclaiming profusely, in his exuberant mix of wild hand gestures and broken English, that the team would be honoured to pack up a meal, even though they didn't normally do takeout.

As expected, Patrick Jane was his favourite restaurant's favourite customer and, naturally, nothing was 'too much for such a gentleman'. It seemed the indelible mark Patrick left wherever he went had it's advantages. Lisbon left with a free meal and an open invitation to a wine tasting the following week ... free of charge again, of course.

When she eventually made it home, the house was once again quiet and unlit and, at first glance, Janeless.

The kitchen, too, was Janeless, so she set about finding bowls and plates for a couple of small tubs of antipasti. He adored olives ... particularly the big green juicy ones whose name she always forgot. And she loved all the other bits and pieces.

She didn't call his name; it seemed a reasonable assumption that, if he was home, Jane would respond to the clinking of china or to the oily scent of Italy escaping it's plastic confines and wafting up the stairs, so Lisbon inclined her head towards the open door and listened expectantly.

After all, Jane's senses were heightened, weren't they?

And he always paid attention. Even in his sleep.

Not a sound met her ears.

The foil container of carbonara - comfort food - went straight into the oven on low to stay warm. And the door slammed with a resounding clunk when Lisbon deliberately allowed the over zealous spring to do it's work without restraint. Maybe he would hear it.

 _Salad in the fridge for now_.

She closed that door without a sound though, while she stopped to listen.

Still no sound of Jane.

Lisbon could easily have been worried that he'd gone wandering, but quickly realised that she wasn't that concerned.

That made her relaxed and happy, if still just a little nervous; in the past, when he was AWOL, her uppermost emotional response was irritated anger, closely followed by fear.

More recently though, the worry that experience had told her was often warranted had begun to wain a little. Her faith in her often unpredictable consultant was certainly coming on in leaps and bounds. And although she knew he would always have that irritating propensity for getting into scrapes, he was at least sharing more before the fact rather than after the proverbial poo had hit the fan.

She wandered through to the living room to wait for the sound of him sneaking through the front door or the sight of him waltzing down the stairs.

And that was when she saw what she should have anticipated in the first place; another note tucked neatly under the edge of the flower vase.

She briefly mused as to why he didn't just text or call her.

This time the note was short and sweet.

 _Dearest,_

 _Please don't let me sleep this time. Come and wake me up, even if your desire for peace and quiet demands otherwise._

 _I want to talk._

 _X_

 _P.S. Thank you for today._

She folded the small sheet of paper and slipped it into her pocket; so much nicer than a text.

She found him lying on her bed _._

He was almost fully dressed this time. Only his shoes sat carelessly discarded in the middle of the floor and his jacket lay as it had landed, half on, half off the chair where he had tossed it.

His body looked the same; untidy. He had thrown it on the bed and slept just as he fell.

He was snoring. Making low rumbling noises like the engine of an ancient tractor sputtering into life. Or how she imagined a warthog might sound eating it's breakfast. Ugly.

It made her grin broadly.

Teresa Lisbon liked ugly on Patrick Jane. It humanised him somehow, made him less intimidating. Not that he'd _ever_ intimidated her. On the contrary, any intimidation tactics he'd tried, deliberate or just teasing, had always been accepted as a challenge ... and that was one of the many things that had kept their relationship fresh, if turbulent, over the years.

So Lisbon picked the crumpled jacket up, shook out the creases and stood for a moment, just holding it, with that stupid grin on her face and her heart almost bursting with love ... until the feel of the cloth in her hands captured her attention and the grin faded to a sad, sentimental smile.

She remained transfixed though, watching him, engulfed in the timeless sensory experience that was, and always would be, Patrick Jane.

Even without his flesh to give it shape and life, the fabric spoke of him.

His scent, his warmth, his energy, even the sound of his voice seemed to be encapsulated in that old jacket.

It was the suit he'd worn on the day he left Sacramento, left the CBI, left the country of his birth. Her brain wouldn't allow her to consider, much less articulate, the other event of that day; the event that had meant he had to leave.

And it was the same suit that he'd been wearing when he came straggling _back_ to the USA, sockless, vestless, but too full of misplaced hope and slightly out of step with the world, the FBI and even her.

The fabric had grown thin, slightly shiny, over time and it slipped like silk between her fingers, but that magnetic impregnation that was particularly Jane hadn't disappeared or been diluted during his two year 'sabbatical' (as he'd one day referred to it with a wonderfully ironic chuckle).

He had it cleaned and a few worn patches invisibly repaired, at great expense, when he returned and she noticed he still wore it, on occasion, like some kind of talisman.

Now it almost ranked alongside the old brown shoes he only seemed to take off to go to bed ... and sometimes then only because convention and good manners dictated. She swore he'd wear those scruffy old shoes in the shower if they hadn't been his only footwear, and therefore precious. But the shoes and their significance were another, perhaps even more significant, story.

He'd also worn that suit both days after he left the hospital.

Maybe he found it comforting. Maybe it held no importance at all.

She smoothed the sleeves, folded the jacket and placed it, with reverence, across the arm of the chair.

Jane was still snoring noisily.

But he looked beautiful and innocent, and not the least bit intimidating, in any sense of the word.

She observed him silently for a moment.

And let her thoughts wander.

How _do_ you wake someone who your conscience tells you needs their sleep?

How do you bring yourself to break the spell he casts when he, however unwittingly, allows you to see him completely laid bare and guileless?

How do you not sit beside him and simply continue to watch him sleep?

And, as you watch, how do you _not_ lean forward and press your lips against his cheek?

She stood and watched, listening to the irregularities of his noisy breathing until, out of the blue, they were interrupted by a random little cough which made him screw his face up and wriggle.

The expression it brought to his face left Lisbon with no choice; resistance was useless.

So she _did_ lean forward and she _did_ press a gentle kiss against his cheek.

And she did decide to wake him.

After all it was what he had told her he wanted; he had asked her so nicely in the tender little note under the peonies in her sitting room.

And she too wanted to talk.

As her warm lips left his cheek and the skin grew instantly cold, Jane stirred. He rolled half over and looked blearily up at her from a very awkward angle, supporting himself on one bent arm.

She smiled. "Hi Jane."

He made a sound that fell somewhere between her name and a groan, then slumped back down.

As she watched and waited patiently he drew a quick breath and coughed it out, then cleared his throat uncomfortably.

His voice rasped like it was dry from sleeping open mouthed.

"Uh, sorry Lisbon," she could just make out from the muffled sound.

Then he stuck his arm up in the air for her to grab, leaving his face half buried in the pillows.

She squeezed the weakly waving hand tight and kissed the tips of his fingers before the arm collapsed back down with a gentle thud.

Lisbon sat, his fingers still wrapped in her hands, happy to wait.

Eventually Jane rolled from mostly on his stomach to mostly on his side, turned his head to look properly at her and smiled.

"Hi."

But he sounded so tired.

"Oh God, Patrick," she said quickly, feeling guilty, a little flustered. "No. I'm sorry. You need your sleep. I didn't think. But your note said ... you said ..."

"S'okay," a quiet voice rumbled on the back of an oxygen grabbing yawn, before Jane finally turned fulled onto his back to gaze lovingly up at her.

Lisbon reached forward again and picked off a tiny white feather that had stuck to the fine damp blondness at his temple while he slept.

"I should have left you ," she insisted, but he just carried on, smiling his enigmatic smile.

She examined the feather, placed it beside the bedside lamp, then turned away and reached down for the blanket at the bottom of the bed, intending to encourage him to sleep on.

At the very same time Jane's body thrust upward, all flailing limbs and blinking eyes and wild tousled hair.

"I'm up! I'm up!" he declared enthusiastically, pitching himself off the bed with such single minded determination that he almost knocked his woman head over heels when he collided with her rear end sticking up as she bent over.

"Whoa... got up way too fast," Jane soon stood, gasping, somewhat surprised and disoriented.

He gathered himself quickly though, lurched over to the doorway and leant there, staring at her dumbstruck face and struggling to catch some breath and stay standing upright.

After a few moments, but still before she'd had chance to recover, he composed his expression to neutral and beckoned her with a subtle nod toward the stairs.

Then he smiled again, a bit of a strain, she thought.

"You comin' then?" he asked, just like they were in her old CBI office and he was poking his face round the door frame, itching to go interview a juicy suspect.

She shot him a foul scowl, but rose gracefully and sauntered over, placing a hand firmly on each of his slightly hunched shoulders. The tension of holding himself together was obvious in his posture, so she waited till she felt his body relax completely in response to her touch. Gradually his features softened properly, he sighed, leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on her forehead.

"Love you, Agent Lisbon."

"I know."

Her hands slid down his arms and around his waist. His did the same. And they fell into a relieved embrace, her cheek against his warm chest, his chin resting on the top of her head.

To her, he felt strong and solid, but a bit wobbly and a lot clammy.

To him, she felt strong, deceptively solid, but feminine and sexy.

"Go take a shower," she whispered against his heart. "I'll make you some tea. You hungry?"

He thought for a moment.

"I could eat that donut from lunch. Did you bin it?"

"It's looking kinda sad and squashed. Besides, I got takeout from that Italian place you rave about."

Jane pulled back so he could look her in the face.

"They don't ..."

A fingertip sealed his lips.

"For their favourite fan they do."

"Cannoli?" he mouthed teasingly, lips vibrating, puffing damp breath into her palm.

She remained steadfastly serious. "Nah, went off cannoli. Never ate the last lot."

They both froze, the moment teetering on the knife edge of a memory until suddenly two stifled chuckles simultaneously broke their bounds and filled the silent room with warmth.

Jane's face lit up.

"So cannolis are water under the bridge?"

"Way out to sea. If that's okay with you?"

"Well ... I always wondered ... " the corners of his mouth turned down, but his grin was devilish when they lifted.

She gave his chest a playful shove.

"Get in that shower, Mr. Jane."

Jane skipped down the stairs fifteen minutes later, wearing freshly laundered navy pyjamas and a cheeky grin.

Lisbon set his tea on the side table near the couch and looked up as the unusual sound of his steps caught her ear.

A casual observer would have been surprised by the sight, even the woman who these days knew him best; his skin looked pink and fresh from the pounding of hot water, his eyes were alive and she couldn't help noticing those dancing feet were enticingly naked.

It was a very pleasant surprise.

She wasn't fooled though, and made no comment, instead stepping forward to meet him, smiling brightly, with hands outstretched to take hold of his.

"Well, you sure look better."

He looked pleased but bashful.

"What can I say, Teresa. Your shower has healing properties."

They stood for a few seconds at the bottom step, caught in the magic of that initial contact that each time felt unique, before she dragged him toward the couch. Lisbon perched herself opposite him on the corner of the coffee table while Jane settled into a cushioned corner, swung his legs up onto the matching footstool and crossed them elegantly at the ankles. He sighed in contentment and closed his eyes, then opened them moments later to the sight of her observing him a bit too studiously.

"I would have let you sleep, you know ... should have," she told him again.

He smiled knowingly at her.

"Of course you would, but you wanted to have that little chat."

She blushed because it was true. She did.

"That was you Jane," she said, because that too was true. "You left written evidence. I can get prints and a graphology expert."

"Only because I knew it was what you wanted, but didn't dare to say. I'm saving you from those pangs of guilt that cause you so much pain."

She jumped off the table edge and plonked herself down unceremoniously on the couch beside him and reached over to hand him his tea.

"You're so full of shit, Patrick Jane," she told him. "Now drink this before it gets cold."

He took a long sip and sighed again, didn't look at her. He was doing a lot of that, she thought.

"You do, though," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Want to talk."

"So do you."

"Me?" He raised an eyebrow. "I never _stop_ talking."

"Yeah," she retorted with a snort. "and it's usually nonsense or lies."

Jane seemed to deflate a little when he heard this. He feigned a little gasp of horror to cover his disappointment, but he actually looked genuinely hurt.

He took a three long sips of tea and waited, considering.

Lisbon had gone gone quiet, embarrassed that she'd apparently offended the one person who was usually unoffendable … or pretended to be … except when he was actually not offended, but it suited him to fake it.

Clearly this time it was genuine … Jane was hurt and she was embarrassed.

Perversely that too made Jane feel bad; the rhythm of their banter had been interrupted because he didn't have the energy to respond in kind to her playful jibe, and that never happened. They could usually banter ad infinitum; insults and compliments easily exchanged.

This was something he felt he needed to rectify by swiftly changing the subject.

"I really like Italian, you know," he said lightly but brightly, a second or two later.

He watched the discomfort leave her face to reveal a soft smile.

"Feed me woman," he tried when he judged the time was right, and he nudged her shoulder gently.

She nudged back, now smiling fully, "I got you some of those olives you love, the ones with the unpronounceable name, and some salami and stuff. And some pasta carbonara."

Jane grinned.

"Excellent. And I'll have the donut for pudding. Now scoot. I'm starving."

She scooted, laughing.

By the time Lisbon came back into the room Jane had taken to his customary pose; stretched out on the couch, head resting on the armrest but his upper body boosted this time with a couple of cushions. Those big graceful hands were folded casually across his body, a little lower down than usual but fingers, as always, locked like a row of piano keys to complete the circle.

His eyes were closed, until, at the faint hiss of a whispered curse, they opened with a slow blink and lethargic lick of his lips.

Lisbon was carrying a mammoth tray, laden with refilled drinks, plates, silverware, napkins and appetising bowls of oil soaked goodies and cured meats. The tray would have been burden enough, but she had the blanket from her bedroom chair slung over one arm. It had slipped and was getting tangled around her legs and she was kicking wildly to free it while still balancing the tray.

Jane lifted his head wearily and frowned, watched her struggle for a while before relenting and, trying his best not to sound too condescending, instructing helpfully, "Calm, Lisbon, calm."

It turned out condescension was the last thing he achieved, as he was croaking like a frog again.

"Let it go," he advised. " Then pick it up."

Lisbon grunted at her know-it-all frog prince, but obediently let the blanket fall to the floor, stepped daintily over it, placed the heavy tray on the coffee table, and finally retrieved the wooly pile.

She threw it at Jane's bare feet which looked decidedly blue.

"Here, you look cold," she told him tersely.

"I'm fine Teresa. Relax."

But he loved her grumpy embarrassment, so he smiled and took the blanket gratefully, scrambling to sit up with legs tucked to the side.

She gave him a shamefaced little grin. "Sorry. Damned thing made me so mad."

"You should chose your enemies more carefully."

"Huh," she grumbled. "You'd think if I could wrangle you I could wrangle a bunch of wool."

"Maybe I could give you a few more lessons?"

She growled another good natured curse, but declined to take up his offer.

Still smiling benignly Jane patted the space next to him and whispered, "C'm on," and when Lisbon happily curled up beside him Jane gathered her 'bunch of wool' haphazardly around their intertwined legs and pulled it up snugly over as much of them as it would cover.

It was true, he wasn't very warm, but he had tried to give up unnecessary moaning and whining for effect; just like he was trying to give up keeping secrets. And now that his lover was finished her fussing and installed at his side with plates full of nibbles he was sure everything would be absolutely hunky dory, and there would be nothing more to refrain from moaning about.

"So," she asked, during a lull in their ensuing feeding frenzy, which for Jane consisted of half a dozen olives and a couple of marinated artichoke hearts, "why so preoccupied in the park?"

He pretended to be shocked.

"Preoccupied?"

"Yeah. Don't think I've ever seen a bigger cloud of melancholy ... even in the attic days."

He thought she looked worried, but that was nothing new, so he laughed.

"Contemplating, Lisbon. I was contemplating."

"O … kay ..."

"Yep," he confirmed with certainty. "Contemplating can be positive as well as it can be negative Lisbon. As can the state of being preoccupied, although I'd suggest that there's a subtle difference. And I think I can be certain ..."

She felt a frisson of annoyance as he paused to tap a finger to his lips for optimum effect prior to continuing, "I _was_ contemplating. Not preoccupied."

He allowed that to sink in then looked her in the eye. "And I can absolutely refute that there was any melancholy present. None at all. Not the merest smidgeon."

Actually, that was a lie, not a big lie, but he felt a tiny ripple of guilt because lying was the other thing he was trying to do less of these days. Anyway, like he figured about ninety percent of all the lies he told, it was a little lie told with the best of intentions, so he tried not to let it bother him.

Trouble was, trying _not_ to do something made it so much worse when you didn't succeed. So naturally he couldn't avoid lingering on the subject.

Yes, the other ten percent had been some real wowsers and he regretted most of them. Mostly they were a thing of the past, a lot of them unavoidable in the circumstances at the time, but nevertheless thinking about some of them now made his skin crawl. He really wished he could wake up one day having forgotten all of the lies he'd ever told, but that was never going to happen, and it would have been a mixed blessing, since it would also have erased some precious moments he'd like to remember. Besides it wasn't healthy to ignore your wrong doings entirely.

He felt a hand sqeeze his knee.

"I said, what was it you were contemplating?"

Now she not only looked worried, she _sounded_ worried.

He blinked, "Oh, sorry," and looked down to stare at his hands. "Um ... things … I was … um … thinking about things Lisbon."

"Things?"

"Yeah, you know, life and all that stuff."

"Oh." Lisbon didn't sound convinced. "Stuff?"

He heaved a slightly exasperated sigh, the third or forth one that evening, then he looked up with an unnervingly solemn expression and suddenly his dancing hands began to explain.

"The seven ages of man, Lisbon," he said, as if he thought she ought to know, "all that stuff."

"Shakespeare?" she speculated doubtfully.

Jane suddenly smiled like a proud parent.

"Mm hmm … 'infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, justice, Pantalone and old age, facing imminent death'. Good old Shakespeare. All the world's a stage and so on."

"And?" Still slightly confused.

Jane got well into his stride, "Well Lisbon," he went on, "if you sit long enough on a park bench on any sunny morning and if you pay attention, you will see what old Will wrote about. It's all out there, the whole world in a leafy green microcosm, examples of every age of man …. well, actually not many soldiers today, and nobody facing imminent death, as far as I could tell ... but ..."

"And that was what made you sad?" she interrupted impatiently.

"I told you, I wasn't sad."

"I saw you. You were."

Jane took his time, his hands stilled, his face slipped from animated to neutral and he looked away.

Lisbon waited patiently.

Eventually he broke the silence.

"You said you bought pasta?"

"Don't change the subject. Why do you always do that?"

But he persisted. "What sort?"

She frowned. "What?"

"Pasta. What sort?"

"Uh ... oh, carbonara."

"I am kinda hungry," he fibbed.

Something sneaky clicked inside Teresa's brain. She didn't like to sink to bribery, but, hell, she figured 'what's good for the goose is good for the gander'.

"You want some now?"

Jane ramped up his deflection. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, yes I'd love some."

And Lisbon opened up her trap. "On one condition," she told him with her sweetest smile, the one he could never resist. "You tell me what made you so sad."

Jane considered.

He figured if he could stall for a while she'd forget. Although he'd have to aim off to allow for her propensity to act like a dog with a bone, he calculated that he'd be able to make a few mouthfuls of pasta (which he actually had little appetite for) last long enough that she wouldn't remember to bug him or he'd think of some other way to distract her so he wouldn't have to lie about being glum again.

Perhaps his dazzling smile would distract her, he thought; that usually worked … or it had mostly, except when she feigned immunity, as she often did now, just to keep him on his toes. He tried not to think about those horrible times in their darker days, when the smile fell flat, she yelled at him and his heart crumbled to dust while his face turned to stone.

"Okay," he agreed, smiling one of those perfectly honed dazzlers. "Let's eat."

It turned out, much to his surprise, his most recent little white lie wasn't a deception at all, merely a mis-realisation … if there was such a thing ... he was hungrier than he thought.

That pleased him.

And it pleased his darling Teresa.

While she demolished her own meal, she watched with growing pleasure as her sick, but recovering, consultant boyfriend tucked into his food with more gusto than either of them had seen in well over a week.

When he was almost finished, Jane passed her the bowl with a proud grin, stretched his back, pushed out his belly and rubbed it affectionately.

"Stuffed, Lisbon," he declared happily.

"You should be," she teased as she got off the couch and wandered into the kitchen.

Once there she stopped and stood for a moment by the dishwasher, found herself slowly turning her head to look back at Jane, perfectly relaxed, eyes closed, expression serene and his hand still resting on his comfortably rounded but still youthfully small belly.

She lingered there, watching him, her mind drifting. He _did_ look _so_ content, at ease with the world for once. She wasn't fool enough to think this state was any more than that, just a few fleeting moments of complete abandonment of everything that wore him down. Each day since they'd been together, those moments had been growing longer, more frequent. His relaxation seemed more real, less like a performance.

Did she really want to mess with that? Did it really matter what made him sad this time? What that specific, probably insignificant thing, that triggered his gloominess was?

She _knew_ what made him sad.

The whole _world_ knew what made him sad.

It wasn't a mystery.

Nevertheless, that look she'd seen on his face in the the park had weighed heavy on her heart all day, and it was causing a pain there that couldn't be ignored.

She did however, decide to turn her question entirely on it's head … a very Jane thing to do.

There was a bottle of red sitting on the counter, abandoned after half a glass had been the solution for sleeplessness a few nights ago.

"Jane," she called brightly.

"Hmmmm."

He sounded happy. If 'hmmmm' can be said to convey happiness.

"Do you need to take more medication tonight?"

"I guess." He replied vaguely. "It's mostly three times a day … after meals. Why d'you ask?"

"There's a mostly full bottle of red here. Will it …"

"One glass won't kill me Teresa."

Lisbon smiled secretly to herself. "That's what I thought. They upstairs? The pills?"

"On the nightstand, I think."

Their conversation sounded reassuringly domesticated.

She put on some gentle music, turned down the lights, lit a couple of scented candles, tactfully persuaded Jane to drink copious amounts of water with his medication to dilute the alcohol … she hoped it's effects would be mostly psychosomatic … then they snuggled up close, cosily cocooned in her blanket.

It didn't take long for the wine and artfully contrived ambience to work it's magic.

They sipped, for the most part silently, and enjoyed the feeling of nearness for several minutes before Jane leaned over, kissed the top of her head and murmured seductively.

"I do believe you're trying to send me to sleep Agent Lisbon."

He dipped so he was looking directly into her eyes; so close that the only thing in her focus was the thin ring of greybluegreen that surrounded one dilated pupil, then his face disappeared off to the side. He nuzzled the tip of his nose into her hair like a burrowing animal and stayed there till she wriggled in response to the tickle of hot breath on her scalp. Then she felt a warm hand slide it's sensuous fingers under the long brown locks that flowed over her neck, clearing a path to one ear.

Jane placed both lips delicately on the lobe and whispered.

"Don't you enjoy my company?"

"Oh, I do," she confirmed. "More than you know, Mr. Jane."

Both moved in unison again, and mouths met in perfect synchronicity, stilled briefly, barely touching, in mutual desire to savour the safety of familiar skin, to taste the taste they had learnt so quickly, to relish the feel of the lips they now knew so well.

Then they kissed.

This was home.

Their safe place.

The kiss was languid, but charged with emotions, numerous and nameless, gentle and calm, loving and lingering, until suddenly but not swiftly Jane sat back, somewhat breathless.

He took Lisbon's hand and held it tight.

His eyes were moist.

"Thankyou," he said shyly, before moving away slowly and settling into the corner of the couch.

They sat quietly, both comfortable in each other's company, not unsettled by his unshed tears.

Lisbon observed Jane's breathing as it eased. Being watched didn't seem to bother him and she wasn't embarrassed to stare, and soon he appeared to be totally relaxed again, hands at rest beneath sated belly, eyes somewhere far away, back in that contented state.

But he looked terribly tired.

"Jane?" she asked after a few more minutes.

He blinked, licked his lips. "Yes dear."

Definitely relaxed, she thought.

"Are you happy?"

"Well that's a big important question Teresa."

"Are you?"

"Of course."

Then he thought for a moment and looked earnestly into her eyes from beneath a furrowed brow.

"I'm happy with _you_ Lisbon," he told her sincerely, and she believed him. "Happy everytime I wake up with you in my arms, everytime I fall asleep next to you. I'm happy in all the individual special moments of everyday we're together. I'm very happy with you. Happier than I've been in a long, long time."

"But there's a 'but' Jane. Isn't there?

The fact that her eyes popped far more than they usually did, piercing him with that helpless questioning look that lifted her brows up and inwards to form a worried little line between them, left Jane in no doubt.

She could read him like a book.

Yet still he deflected, stared straight at her.

"No. No 'buts', he denied. "I'm happy."

That brought a stern frown to her face.

"Jane," she said, and he could hear the pain in her voice. "A while back you told me you wanted me to be happy, that if I was happy you were happy. You said my happiness was the most important thing to you."

"Yeah, I did. And I meant every word."

"But you _weren't_ happy. Neither was I."

She swallowed, averted her eyes, ashamed at the memory but still angry with him. "We nearly broke each other's hearts Jane."

His gaze held steady. "I still mean every word, Teresa."

She snapped her head back up and glared right back. "Then level with me. If you want me to be happy, tell me what you're holding back."

Jane was mute.

He closed his eyes for a moment, could feel the dull cloak of guilt beginning to make him tired again. Reopened them.

He sighed, glanced at his lover and made a decision.

It felt like the world stopped spinning while he searched for answers.

Teresa watched his lovely eyes. The light reflected in them flickered with crystal aqua shards and translucent threads of teal and amber and silver as they darted back and forth to find a way of converting feelings into words.

For Jane it was so easy to spin a fancy yarn, but sometimes hard to tell the truth.

Yet, for all that, he knew the truth should be simple.

"Okay, " he agreed at last.

He breathed out long and slow, licked dry lips and took her hand again.

"This morning, in the park," he began. "It wasn't so much that what I saw made me sad, more that it polarised something that's been bothering me. Something that I hadn't consciously acknowledged."

"So you are sad, you aren't happy?"

"Not exactly that Teresa, no."

"What then?"

"It was all the happy little cameos: couples walking dogs, children playing, old couples walking arm in arm, mums and dads and childminders ... all so normal ... "

He paused, took a deep breath.

"It just, sort of … just … it made me think again how precious life is and how it can all go up in a puff of smoke … and I kinda realised that … well … I haven't thought about it for a long time, what I threw away ... and well ... how uncertain the future is ... "

Her face fell again.

"And you don't see a secure future for us? What we have doesn't give you hope?"

Jane struggled to explain in words that wouldn't hurt her, but couldn't say more than what he thought she wanted to hear.

The absolute truth was sometimes too hard.

So he didn't tell the one truth that would one day have to be told.

That there was an old fear building in the pit of his stomach.

A kind of deja vu.

"Yes, yes, of course I do," he insisted instead. "I want to be happy with you. And I am. I told you. I love you."

And that was after all, the biggest truth. So he told himself he didn't feel so bad.

Lisbon studied him hard.

"So I'm worrying about nothing then, Jane?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he confirmed quietly, relieved. "I'd suppose I'm a bit tired because of the … uh … illness."

"Okay then," she conceded with a resigned sigh.

Jane leaned in and gave her an affectionate but passionless peck on the cheek, the mearest whisper of a touch, then sat back and closed his eyes.

Lisbon retreated to the kitchen to make tea and coffee in spite of the late hour. It was obvious Jane needed time to be with alone with his thoughts and she didn't have an attic. In her peripheral vision as she stood at the counter waiting for the water to boil she could see him. Even in the half light his figure oozed fatigue, his face drawn and older than his years. He was deep in thought, that much was obvious, eyes now open under a brow furrowed by anxiety.

"We'll go to bed when we've drunk this," she told him when she returned with their drinks. "You look absolutely exhausted."

He smiled weakly. "You're sweet."

They sat side by side, mugs in hand, both sipping. It seemed like both were too worn out to talk long into the night. Then, when she had all but finished her coffee, Jane rose without saying a word and went to the bathroom. She heard him coughing and the unmistakeable sound of running tap water, then the sound of the flush and more running water. He emerged five minutes later, looking brighter, the hair around his face a little wet and tousled.

He sat down beside her, turned so they were facing, knees touching, took the cup from her hand and enclosed both of hers in his. His hands were cold and damp where he hadn't dried them properly.

"I suppose I'd better get it off my chest properly then, hadn't I?" he said bashfully.

"Yup"

He gave a self conscious, half strangled laugh which she returned with a strange little grunt.

"I think I need to paint you a picture, to soften the blow."

She grinned, because she hoped he was joking.

"That doesn't fill me with confidence, you fool. Just get on with it."

"Okay. Here goes." He rubbed both hands down his pyjama bottoms, then launched into his story.

"You do remember what it feels like to walk on the beach on a sunny day, don't you Lisbon? You went to the coast when you were a kid?"

She nodded, slightly puzzled. Was he teasing because she was more a city girl than a beach babe?

He gazed deep into her eyes with that eagerness to connect, that earnest, boyish look she loved so much.

"Imagine it," he encouraged, pausing briefly to gauge her reaction.

She tried, but her days beside the sea had been few and far between and not even very memorable.

He wasn't smiling, but his eyes suddenly sparkled and he squeezed her fingers in his enthusiasm, then carried on, his voice strengthening, gathering momentum.

"The sky's blue and cloudless, the beach stretches in a band of gold as far as the eye can see in both directions. Out in front of you there's nothing but shades of blue and sometimes you can't even make out where the ocean meets the sky. The only thing you notice is that the sand's soft and warm under the soles of your feet, and as you dip your toes into the water's edge it's so shallow that it's warmed quickly by the sun and its tickly and soothing, delicious, even sexy. It's early in the season, but still the sun heats your skin through your cotton shirt and you have to take it off and carry it slung over one shoulder with a finger hooked through the label."

Lisbon smiled as she watched the memory of just such days push its way past the seriously weary expression that had been Jane's default for much of the day. She had no idea where this was going, but it was doing him good. That much was obvious.

"... and you carry on wading slowly into the water, feeling it lapping round your ankles, round your calves, up toward your knees. You go very slowly, because you know the water's cold and if you go too fast your body won't like it, so you stand and let your legs acclimatise before you venture further. Then, even though the water's deepish, it still feels warm so you think you're safe. At the same time you start to feel it's weight pushing back and forth as it rushes to the shore and back out again, and it makes you sway a little, but that's half the excitement, makes you feel alive and brave."

"Sounds lovely Jane."

He was smiling dreamily now, lost in thought for a moment, then he withdrew one hand from hers and ran it ever so slowly over his face before returning it to her with a quiet sigh.

"Yeah, it does doesn't it," he agreed.

"And it _is_ a wonderful thing, to feel the ocean flowing all around you … and the temptation to keep on wading in deeper and deeper is so compelling … until you realise there's more power in every wave than you can ever imagine and you become aware of each one as it shoves a bit too hard against your legs."

His voice grew louder now, more animated.

"That's when you find yourself thinking about who's really in control. You start waiting for that one big breaker that's more powerful than all the rest, the one that can sweep you off your feet in an instant and put you flat on your back, head under. And by then it's probably too late. The water's going to be so cold it'll take your breath away, and you'll struggle to right yourself, even though you know you're a strong swimmer. You wonder if you'll even survive, or if you'll be swallowed down into the darkness and never find your way back up.

You look back at the sand, down at the water, out to the sky and it's all blue and gold, and beautiful.

You thought it could never happen to you.

But it can.

And sometimes it does.

Those days are golden, but it only takes one that one rogue wave, that one moment. Then, wham! It's all gone."

He paused. His voice dropped low and defeated.

"No more golden days Lisbon," he said saddly. "No more ice cream."

Jane's hands had been wrenched from hers half way through his impassioned oration, to help tell the story. Now redundant, they lay immobile in his covered them with hers, warm and reassuring, until his eyes lifted and she could see that they were not particularly sad, but full of honesty, shining in his handsome tortured face. Like a burden had been lifted.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon," he told her, speaking very quietly now. "That's all rather depressing and morbid. But, I confess, that's the way I've been feeling lately, despite our happiness; that there's this shadow hanging around out there, over the horizon or round the next bend in the road."

She tried to smile.

"You have to tell me, you know Jane. If it's something specific. So I can help. Remember we agreed, no need to hide anymore."

"I know," he muttered glummly. "But you're not going to like it."

"I'm a big girl Jane. I can take it."

She shoved his shoulder playfully, a poor attempt to relieve the tension. "What does your rogue wave look like? What is it that's making you so miserable?"

Jane looked down and saw the anxious fingers worrying his wedding ring. He hadn't done that for so many weeks, since they'd been together in fact.

He steeled himself and raised his head to look his new love bravely in the face and he just went for it.

Looked at her without expression and blurted it out.

"It's our jobs Teresa … _your_ job."

His eyes filled with tears.

"I terrified of losing you."

* * *

 **So, I have to admit I am a little worried about reaction to that ending, but never fear, all will be well ...**

 **I will be away after the weekend for a couple of weeks, but promise to answer any reviews you might be inclined to leave when I return.**


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